


a wild heart to charm

by gleamingandwholeanddeadly (something_safe), printersdeadly, printersdevils (tuesdaysgone)



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Affectionately referred to as the 'farmers' market AU', Blowjobs, CW: alcohol, Everything is the same but also different, First Time Sex, Hurt/Comfort, Jon Snow does not deal with any of that nonsense from S8, Jon Snow/Tormund Giantsbane - Freeform, Jon is in the army, Jon moves North of the Wall following a new posting, M/M, Modern AU, Outdoor Sex, Pining, Shameless retconning of the TV plot in order to fit the authors' agenda, Slow Burn, Tormund is a farmer, Tormund is a gentle giant and kind of a dork, Tormund is his friendly neighbour, but it is soft and full of love and that so treat yourself, cw: non-graphic animal death, cw: pining idiots, he's just a good lad who has had enough, it's barely a fanwork tbh, jon is a trauma boy, sex - penetrative, this fic is literally nothing like the books or the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-03
Updated: 2019-11-02
Packaged: 2021-01-21 21:07:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 54,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_safe/pseuds/gleamingandwholeanddeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/printersdeadly/pseuds/printersdeadly, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tuesdaysgone/pseuds/printersdevils
Summary: Jon Snow moves North of the Wall and finds several things in quick succession: an old friend, an orphaned puppy, and a cheerful giant of a farmer who likes to tease him and likes even more to come to his rescue. It's enough to make a lost soldier feel like he might just be ready to live again.
Relationships: Gilly (ASolaF) & Samwell Tarly, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Comments: 46
Kudos: 334





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much an AU, it just happens to be set in the GOT universe, but like. Modern day. Don't let it spoil it for you. Essentially, everything is the same, but slightly different. Anyway, these two idiots are going to fall in love, we think you'll like it. Thanks for reading <3

Rolling hills for miles, sun, bright green grasses and trees, and the wild sounds of birds and winds greet Jon as he climbs wearily out of the car. He looks up at the house that will be his for the foreseeable future, a handsome cottage with signs of wear about the edges sat in the shelter of a forested valley, and lets out a long breath as he stretches.

It’s been a long journey from King's Landing following a commendation ceremony he hadn’t much enjoyed, and a series of terse dinners with foreign royalty, in honour of his brother Bran’s recent election. Here, distant mountains and the faint, mist-veiled shadow of the Wall make him feel safe and alone in a way he never could in the towering fortress of gleaming glass and restored red stone.

After a choppy voyage to White Harbour, he’d collected his car and embarked upon the last leg of his trek: the drive through the Northern border customs, and beyond to the Wall. He'd been tempted to stop off at Winterfell on the way, but the thought of the hurricane of activity following Sansa now she has her own office held him off: that place is still haunted for him in ways he can’t quite name.

Better to break the back of the change, he thinks now. Better to forget it's so close. Jon is used to home being a concept, rather than a place.

He grabs his suitcase now and takes the new keys out of his pocket - handed over at the Wall’s border office with his papers - and unlocks the creaking yellow door. Inside, he finds himself glad he's rented it furnished. It's bigger than the pictures made it look. Bigger, and when he gets further into the belly of the house, colder.

Dropping his bag, he makes a perturbed noise and goes to find the thermostat. The old boiler whooshes from deep within the house when he turns it on and cranks the heat. At least it's working. Jon casts his gaze around, taking in the faded wallpaper; the pleasant but well-loved look of the place. Too big for just him, but he’s used to that. The kitchen seems nice enough, he supposes. He needs to bring the rest of his things in, then walk through and check it out. With a sigh, he heads back to the car.

A few trips do the job, and then he unpacks his few modest kitchen and homewares before taking his suitcases up the rickety little staircase to unpack his clothes. It's a few hours before he stops, and he's empty with hunger and feeling unmoored. Luckily he picked up some groceries before he got to the Wall - there's not much up here but forest and sprawling farmland; a small town near enough for shopping but not at this time of evening.

Small town hours. Small town pace. It's been a long time since he's had that. He's been moving so fast for so long, never in one place. Now, he's here indefinitely; the middle of nowhere, alone with his thoughts. He hopes he can do it.

He cooks dinner; turns on some lights and music when it gets dark to scare away the doubts that lurk in the back of his mind. This promotion is nothing he can't handle. Not after active duty. Though part of him wonders if it is truly a promotion - or retirement. His chest burns with the thought. Tomorrow he'll head to the training base at the wall to meet his commanding officer, and maybe they'll be able to give him some pointers on where he can find some actual life around here. He thinks he needs to.

A message alert on his phone comes through despite the patchy signal - his sisters on their group chat. They'll be checking in on him, he supposes, and snaps a quick selfie to send.

_>>Your hair is so long!<<_ Arya is the first to respond; she generally is.

_<<It happens,>>_ he replies. _<<No more regs.>>_

More good natured ribbing about him being prettier than either of them follows. He makes his bed with new bedding he brought with him and washed up, texting back and forth before he finally feels his eyes start to grow heavy. Outside, the sound of chilly rain against the roof and windows. He's happy to let it soothe him to sleep.

Less happy the next morning, when he awakes from bleary nightmares to the sound of dripping. He has a leak, clearly. With a groan, he throws back the covers and fumbles out of bed, going downstairs in his boxers for a pot from the kitchen, shivering all the while. A quick assessment of the situation shows a leak might be a mild way of putting it - water is dripping into the spare bedroom from a patch of damp on the ceiling, and a peek into the attic reveals tiles that have been whipped away in some of the more insistent valley winds. Back down he goes, for a bucket this time, and a spare tarp from the wood shed outside. He puts on clothes for that excursion.

Eventually, he has the tarp temporarily secured in the attic with a mixture of picture nails and duct tape, and a bucket down in the spare room to catch any remaining drips. Fervently wishing he’d never left his bed, Jon goes to get his phone, where he has the property manager's number stored, and dials. No answer. He sighs and checks the time, and shit, he has to get going.

"Don't collapse," he tells the house plaintively when he’s ready to go. He types out a quick message explaining the problem as he grabs his bag and keys.

The drive to the base at the Wall is wet but relatively easy. There's not much else up here, he knows. Just the town, a few blocks of flats for off-base housing, and further into the forested area, Freefolk towns like Crastor’s Keep and Hardhome - small, and rarely travelled by foreigners. Everything looks wild here, the peaks on the skyline capped with snow, sheltering them from coastal winds. The farms, pockets of emerald tucked in the valleys. Jon can't help but like it.

At Castle Black, the main base, a place he knows well from his earlier years in the service, Jon pulls out his paperwork and is dutifully buzzed in by the attendant on the gate. Immediately his shoulders ratchet down a hair, simply because he knows he'll understand the routine here. He’s reporting to Davos Seaworth, the new acting Commanding Officer here, and he grasps Jon by the shoulder with fatherly concern as soon as he sees him.

"Jon Snow, you're looking a damn sight better than you last were when I saw you."

"I hope so," Jon murmurs. The last time he'd seen Davos, he had a chest full of shrapnel that tried to kill him - and succeeded for a minute and a half. The medics told him afterward that his survival - resuscitation, really - was a miracle. He's yet to be convinced.

At any rate, he's still here, and he still has duties. He's to be a training instructor for new recruits, just theory until he's had the all clear from his doctor to resume the physical side of things. And when Jaime Lannister at Veterans Affairs decides he's jumped through all the mental hoops, of course, though Jon is privately skeptical he's entirely qualified to say. They have a conference call set up for later this week. To say he's dreading it is an understatement.

*

His first day is reasonably easy going, all things considered. Jon's squads are misfits of the highest order, as is the norm for recruits this close to the wall, but they're solemnly committed - for many of them, military service is an exchange for prison sentences or worse. Jon thinks of his father whenever he has to step in front of a new class. His father who had always seemed ill at odds with his class status and authority, until it came to carrying out the duties that came with it. If Jon could be even half the man he was...

He doubts he ever will be. But he's here, and he has something to do, at least. And - he's done his best.

At the end of day, he salutes his troop and bids them good evening, spending a while collating his lesson plans on the office laptop before he collects his things and makes his way out to the lot. It's thankfully stopped raining, and another soldier waves him down, a familiar gait and shape.

"Jon Snow?"

"For my sins," Jon says, offering a hand to shake. He's barely looking up, too busy juggling his belongings, so he's bowled over by the hug he's yanked into. He looks up, flustered. "Sam! What're you doing here? I thought you'd been transferred to Intelligence!"

"Have a bit of a need for it at the Wall, don't they?" Sam Tarly beams at him.

Jon straightens up, genuine delight igniting. "More than most places, aye."

"And don't you worry, I have plenty of it about the North. I'll be your guide, Jon Snow." Sam winks.

"I already feel much safer," Jon says, honestly. "You’re the best surprise I’ve had since I got here. Hey - do you want to go for a drink-? Or dinner," he amends, remembering his sparse pantry and its tins of food.

"Oh, ah," Sam looks effusively pleased, too, "all right. I'll just text Gilly and let her know."

"How is she?" Jon asks, following as Sam waves him toward his car.

"She's, well, she's wonderful."

"Glad to hear," Jon murmurs. "Shall I follow you-?"

"Yeah, all right, just be careful, yeah? Lots of deer about this time of night. Even a few wolves!"

"Thanks Sam." Smiling to himself, Jon gets into his car and follows him out onto the dirt roads: he's already feeling brighter at the prospect of working with Sam.

The pub they stop at is scattered with other off-duty guardsmen in their fatigues. A few of them seem to know of Jon when Sam introduces him, and he gets handshakes and a drink bought, and then he sees Davos wave from the back of the room and he and Sam head over. It's good to drop into a quiet corner. "Military pub," Sam explains, a bit unnecessarily.

"It hasn't been that long," Jon chuckles. He greets Davos warmly, and they waste an hour or two catching up, reminiscing: Jon and Sam had been in Davos' platoon when they were new recruits themselves. They order pub dinners and a few pitchers of beer between them, and explain all about the area - as well as non locals can, anyway.

The truth is, only areas close to the wall are inhabitable to anyone but Free-folk even today. They all shrug off the local myths even as they explain them. Aside from anything else, the True North is largely inhabited by wolves, bears, even mountain lions.

"Wild," Sam says, a little less than soberly. "Though- there's a nice farmer's market at the nearest town."

Jon chuckles. He can just picture Sam and Gilly at a farmer's market. "Suppose there's not much choice up here."

"There's some." Sam drains his glass. "But the one at Whitetree is particularly nice."

"I don't suppose it's open at -" he checks his watch - "nine at night?"

"No, but it's on every Saturday," Sam says pleasantly, "we can go if you like?"

"Maybe," Jon murmurs. "Speaking of groceries..."

"Yes-?"

"Anywhere still open?"

"There's a petrol station not far from here with a general store."

Jon nods. He saw it on the way in. "Brilliant."

"That's ah - about it, I'm afraid."

"No matter," Jon says. "Not much different from home really."

"No, I suppose not."

"Suppose you're leaving then," Davos says.

"I better had, I don't want to be hungover on my second day on the job."

"Good lad."

Jon smiles and bids them both a warm good evening. "Sam - maybe I'll join you on Saturday, if that's okay?"

“Of course. You can see Little Sam.”

“Can’t wait.” Jon squeezes his arm, then drains the last of his drink and makes his way out to his car.

He's halfway home before he remembers the leak; the forecast for more rain tonight. When he checks his phone, there's no response from maintenance, of course. He grumbles but is ultimately too tired to deal with it. Instead, he changes out the bucket, texts his sisters, and washes up for bed. Tomorrow is another day, after all.

*

The rest of the week is better, even though Jon still struggles to sleep - things aren't as daunting as they thought he might be, and Saturday morning finds him fitting in time for a run before he goes to meet Sam. It's a sunny day and the air is crisp. Still a bite of coolness, but the ground has hardened up after the rain. It feels good to stretch his body, even though he has to stop sooner than he’d like in deference to the tightness in his chest.

Showered and fed, he drives winding roads over to town, the rudimentary track flanked by great rolling moors either side. He sees sheep and cattle and so much green. They're different to back home - great beasts, larger than any stock Jon has ever seen. He knows little about any of it, of course, He's still a city boy for all intents and purposes. Still, he's surprised by how many people are bustling around the little town.

Sam and Gilly are waiting for him with their pushchair, car parked in a lay-by with several others. He pulls in behind them and rummages in the back of his car for a bag. A couple of canvas totes under his arm, he goes to greet Sam and give Gilly a warm hello.

"Welcome," she says shyly. She watches with a bright smile as Jon says hello to the baby, marvelling aloud at Little Sam’s tiny, soft hands and long eyelashes. He's always liked babies. He purposefully doesn’t let himself think of the daydream he allows himself sometimes; a daughter with red hair and freckles like her mother.

"Shall we go?" Sam says, gesturing toward the stalls and spreads that sprawl over the field.

Jon nods, booping Little Sam on the nose to make him laugh. "Lead on."

Sam and Gilly have obviously been here before - Gilly takes the pushchair off to the meat counter while Sam dawdles over herbs at Jon's elbow. The air smells warm and bright with different produce. There are stands with candles, honey, baked goods - people everywhere. Jon is a bit dazzled by it all.

Jon buys some herbs, then looks around for cheese. He's poring over a fruit stall when he bumps over a basket of apples with his bag, and he throws himself to his knees to gather them up hastily, ears turning hot.

"I'm so sorry -" A pair of boots in his line of vision, and then a well muscled, freckled arm as the stall owner squats to help him.

"Worry not, they'll just have more character."

"Soft spots, maybe," Jon says miserably, then looks up and blinks. He's straining for one of the apples that has rolled under the stall, very close to the stall owner without realising, though all he sees currently is a wild mane of wavy copper hair. His hand is gently batted out of the way. "I'm so sorry," he repeats miserably.

"Want to make it up to me?" The stall owner says, tone almost a tease.

"I can't buy that many apples," Jon protests.

"No? Not a pie baking man?" The stall owner examines a couple of the apples critically, but adds them back to the basket with an absent grin.

"Not when I live alone," Jon murmurs.

"Would you like a tissue?" The stall owner laughs.

"Oi, and here I was going to buy some of those berries as well."

"Oh, do you want to throw them on the floor and all? It was a little funny watching you dive after them." Tall and broad, the stall owner has a distinctly Northern accent and a good humour about him. Tall may be understating things: when he unfolds to his full height he's intimidatingly large.

"Well, if it'll amuse you," Jon huffs, "by all means." He can't quite meet the bloke's eyes.

"Aye," he says, a touch of danger to it, "go on then."

For a moment, Jon thinks he's serious. He can't, of course. He picks up a box quite meekly and hands it over to be bagged. The stall owner chuckles again, rumbling and pleasant, shaking his head.

"Not from around these parts?"

"Army base," Jon's eyes flee from intensely blue ones. "Brand new."

"Oh, at the Wall. You're a Southerner."

"I suppose. I grew up in Winterfell."

The stall owner shrugs. "Still the South to me, lad. How long you been here?"

"Not quite a week yet."

"And how do you like it up here?"

"It's beautiful," Jon grins wryly. "Too bad my roof leaks."

"Oh-?" The smile crinkles his eyes, beard warping with the expression. "With the weather we've been having, that can't be good."

"Not so much. Well, uh - at least I'll be spending a lot of time in my kitchen." Jon takes a second bag with half a dozen apples in it.

The stall owner doesn't stop him, but he does give him another big smile. Jon feels his ears turning red. "You cook, mm?" he says, after he's totalled up Jon's purchase.

Jon looks down at his bags of produce and cheese, back up. "I... maybe. Sort of. Not tried it much before but - the canteen leaves something to be desired, so maybe."

The man smirks, then picks something up off his table. "My card. In case you need more apples."

Jon pauses. "Oh - are you not here every week?"

"I am," the man replies.

Jon looks at the card, feeling like it's written in another language. "Tormund, huh-?"

"That's me," he says cheerfully. "Take it, Southerner." He adds, with a slight smile, "You'll be needing all the friends you can get up here."

Jon nods and tucks the card away in his pocket. "And you’re offering?"

“Maybe I am.”

They exchange careful smiles again, and Jon hands over his coin, tucking the fruit away in a cloth bag with his cheeses.

The stall owner, Tormund, watches him away with a faintly raised eyebrow and a smile. “Let me know how you like them. Next time, you could even try them unbruised, if you want.”

He manages a stiff laugh, still mortified. “You’re too kind.”

“Never been called that before.”

“Well. Uh. First time for everything.”

“We’ve all got to have a couple of first times.”

“Yeah. Well- thanks.” Jon waves a bit, unsure why he’s lingering quite so much as he is. God, he's awkward. That will never change, no matter where he is.

Rolling his eyes at the thought, he heads to find Sam: easy enough to spot another dark head among so many fair ones. Truly, they're the foreigners here. He'll have to remember that, and remind his men at the Wall: they'll have to treat this land with respect. He'll have to teach them.

He wanders around and looks at a few more stalls on his own while Sam and Gilly finish their shopping, eyes occasionally drifting over to the red haired stall owner, Tormund. He doesn't mention the encounter to his friends. They don't need any more proof of what a mess he is.

He’s still burning with embarrassment at the thought by the time they’re finishing up, following them down the dirt path back toward the lay-by. He's somehow managed to come away with quite a lot of dessert. It just figures. Looking after himself has never been his strong point.

“So, I’ll see you on Monday, Jon,” Sam pipes up, his round face bright with easy enthusiasm. “Are you back full time?”

“For the moment.” He's back at the Wall on a probationary basis - if he finds it too much, five days, he has to cut down. He hopes it won't come to that - he's only been struggling a little this week. Just because it's been a while, he's sure. He's still due that call with Lannister. “I’ll have to see how it goes, I’m not used to getting tired.”

“No, I’m sure you’re not. It’ll get better though, Jon,” Sam assures him, kind eyes genuine. Jon hopes so.

Trying not to think about it, he bids Sam and Gilly good day and heads back toward the house. There, he tasks himself with making order out of the jumble of food he's bought - the fruit in their little wooden punnets to return when he next goes back, some vegetables too. Cheese, honey, a loaf cake - and a scented candle, because the young girl at the booth had reminded him of Sansa, determinedly serving customers with her mother hovering approvingly behind her.

Sansa. Maybe he could send it to her. Maybe he'll get her and Arya one each next week. They might not get broken if he wrapped them carefully. He still has the boxes from his move, and plenty of newspaper. He nods to himself, and lights this one after a quick sniff of cinnamon and clove, fumbling a lighter out of his pocket: he doesn't smoke, but most soldiers do these days. When Tormund's card flutters out onto the kitchen table, he pauses and sets the jar down.

_Giantsbane Family Farms_

_Quality Organic Wholefoods_

His name scratched on the back in biro, a number too, and the farm address. Jon scrutinises it idly for a moment and then hangs it up on the refrigerator. He's still not entirely sure what he could need it for - but it's useful to try and have people to call, out here in the middle of nowhere. Or, he supposes, to foist applesauce onto. Not that Tormund will be short of that.

Thoughtful, he finds a recipe online and sets about trying to make an apple and blackberry pie. He's not entirely sure his crust will turn out, but hopefully the filling itself will be good, and it’s sort of fun, prodding his pastry together and trying to drink a cup of tea with sticky fingers. It’s so far from his usual use of time that he almost laughs at himself, covered in flour and dropping blackberries all over.

When he's put together his pie base, he puts it in the oven to blind bake, absently touching his chest as he checks his phone. Nothing from his sisters yet today. His brother isn't around either - _they__’re too busy for you -_ and Jon starts to feel aware of how isolated he is as he presses on with a no doubt doomed baking experiment.

As if to convince him otherwise, an owl comes and hunches outside his kitchen window, great eyes yellow as harvest moons where it’s perched on the post of his half-collapsed fence. Watching it in the pink glow of the gathering dusk, he feels the tug to explore his garden. He puts a timer on his phone for the pie, puts it in to bake in its entirety, and heads out.

The garden is bigger than expected, despite being run down. He peers at the unpruned bushes and vegetable patch, yielding several overripe tomatoes, and sighs. Not his area, but there's plenty of space. Seems a shame to waste it just on him. Most soldiers just live at the base apartments. He feels like an outsider even in that.

From the post, the round-faced owl cries, and then takes flight, sweeping away into the woods beyond. Jon watches the pale shape of it fade, and then he goes back inside, leaving the door ajar so the last shreds of the weak evening sunshine can fall through in great bright blocks. Like this, it's comfortable here. He makes up some food and takes his dinner out onto the little back step and sits looking out onto the garden as he eats. It tastes better like this, he ought to remember that.

With the sun slowly sinking beyond the forest ahead, the wall behind, a faint glow rings the horizon. He watches the brambles at the bottom of the garden sway for a minute or two before he realizes there's something there.

Davos had said something about bears, wolves, and the fear blindsides Jon for a minute and he stands. He doesn't even have a weapon. He should just close the door, he reasons, but something holds him back.

"Hey," he calls out.

The movement in the bushes stills.

"Where are you?" he tries again, a little quavery.

More movement, the bush quivering. The fence has given way entirely under the weight of the pressing brambles and roses, giving way to splotchy grass and a little trodden path into the trees. He can’t see much when he peers into the branches, but there’s a bundle of wiry fur caught on a knot of thorns on the lower twigs of the thicket. With a frown, Jon goes back inside and fetched a heavy bottom skillet from the pantry, then heads back down to the end of the garden. He steps heavily through a break in the brush.

The movement in the bush ceases, and Jon thinks whatever is in there might have run away, but when he sweeps the branches aside he finds a great, bloodied pelt of grey fur; huge paws and sunken eyes. He gasps and jumps back a step out of sheer surprise.

The wolf is unmistakably dead - hunting, most likely, and Jon's throat feels momentarily tight with regret. Then he remembers the movement and casts his eyes around the underbrush. There, just a scant few inches from his hand, is a set of beady little eyes.

Immediately, he sinks into a crouch. "Hello," he whispers.

The pup eyes him warily, huddling into its mother.

"Oh, no." He kneels down fully, reaching out. "It's all right. Come on now." The little thing isn't safe here. Not now.

It still won't come. He bites his lip, then goes inside quick to grab a scrap from his plate. He crawls under the bushes as far as he can to the pup, extending the morsel of leftover meat. He's managed to scratch himself on a bramble, just above his eyebrow. He feels sweat drip down and sting the cut as he waits, motionless.

First, the twitch of a little nose, and then slowly the pup comes forward, a whine escaping it. Jon holds very still. When the pup is close enough, eagerly biting down on the scrap and sniffing his fingers for more, he coaxes it closer with a hand. He tucks it against his chest as it nips at his fingers with tiny milk-teeth.

"All right," he murmurs, "it's all right, little one."

Fluffy and tiny and pure white - who knows if it is a wolf-dog or pure wild wolf, certainly Jon doesn't - it feels like it weighs nothing. He lifts it up, examining it for injury, and finds nothing but a little dirt here and there.

"Okay. We're going inside." Gods, he hopes it doesn't have littermates. He peers into the bushes, doing a quick circuit of the bush to check, checking the wolf mother just to be sure she's not merely stunned. No life remains but his, and the little white pup's.

With a sigh, he takes the pup inside. He'll have to bathe it, give it a once-over. Feed it. He's not sure if there's a vet near here, and he's puzzling over where to find one when he remembers Tormund's card - he's a farmer, perhaps he keeps livestock, or knows someone who does. Shit, he hates the phone.

He puts that thought aside for now as he takes the puppy to the sink, clearing it one-handed of dishes and running a bowl of warm-ish water. He's not sure how old it is, if it will still need milk and if so how to get it. He retrieves the thought of the card as he scrubs gently at the soft white fur. He really ought to ask if someone can help. Feeling entirely awkward, he wraps the damp pup in a towel and digs his phone out of his pocket. He's been in war zones, caught political crosshairs, and this is what's going to be his biggest hurdle.

As the pup buries its nose in his neck, he dials. It rings for a long time, crackly up here, but eventually a huffing reception and then a distracted greeting.

"Ah. Hello. Tormund?" Jon breathes.

"Yes?" He sounds slightly impatient, not rude but harried.

"This is Jon, ah. The Southerner? Sorry to bother you so late, I was wondering, uh. You have a farm, right?"

More confused silence, and then Tormund says, "The little Crow from the market-?"

Jon is surprised by the nickname - an old fashioned term, certainly.

"Yes, uh. Yeah, that's me."

"Oh - aye, a farm. What can I help you with?"

"I was hoping you knew a - had a - veterinarian? I need one. Um, not for me obviously. For a dog. Maybe a dog."

"Maybe a dog?"

"A - there's a dead thing, in my back yard."

A chuckle. "That sounds beyond a vet, lad. Maybe a priest?"

"No, it -" he can't help but laugh, albeit weakly. "She had a pup, a baby, and I want to get him checked out, I've given him a bath."

"I see." There's a momentary pause. Then Tormund answers, "Got a pen?"

"Uh- got my phone." He puts him on speaker and opens up a note. "Go ahead." Tormund recites a number and Jon dutifully reads it back.

"A dead dog, hm?" Tormund says then. "You near the forest?"

"I suppose," Jon shrugs. "Do you know where Valley Lane is?"

"Aye, yeah, I know it." An indecisive pause. "Well, there are bears in that neck of the woods. Big fuckers. Be hungry this time of year."

"Guess that could have been what hurt the mum."

"That's not what I mean. Do you have a truck? Or - any gasoline?"

"Just my car. There might be a gas can in the shed, I dunno, it's a rental. Why?"

Another dubious murmur. "Dead animal in your back yard near the woods. There's things in them woods you don't want coming to your door, lad. I've got a flatbed, I'll come and move it."

"Oh, gods, you don't have to -"

"I'd rather not read about you getting eaten by bears."

"Hah," Jon laughs.

"I'm not joking. Give us your address."

"Pine Grove Cottage, Three Valley Lane," Jon sighs, feeling his face heat.

"I'll be there soon, I'll bring some stuff for yer pup.”

Jon stammers out a protest but the line is already dead. That just leaves him to hurriedly clean up, closing the door and plopping the fluffy little wolf pup into one of his empty moving boxes for now as he tries to make the place more presentable. Then he subsides into a chair and waits. But it's only minutes until he hears a truck on gravel.

He leaps out of the chair and goes to the door, watching through the window for a moment as Tormund emerges from the truck, a shovel and a tarp loaded into the flatbed. He looks even bigger than he did this morning, his navy sweatshirt snug on his well-built frame, beard like a lick of flame against the dark fabric.. Jon acknowledges quietly to himself that he's slightly afraid of him, but he makes himself step outside as Tormund comes up the path.

"Thanks for coming, come in," he says, a little uselessly, and Tormund flashes him a grin as he precedes him inside. He pauses at the cardboard box, inspecting the pup.

A rumbling noise of consideration. "Where's outside?"

"Follow me," Jon says.

In the garden, Tormund looks over the dead mother under the brush with a torch held aloft. He frowns. "This isn't just a wolf," he murmurs.

"Um. It isn't?"

"No, the size of it - it's a direwolf. Looks like she was shot." He considers again. "Just one pup?"

Jon indicates the surrounding wood, going dark now. "All I could find."

"Mm." Tormund looks troubled, and Jon isn't precisely sure why, until, "poaching direwolves used to be common practise, in my ancestor's times. This one must have been on someone's radar for a while."

"Poaching?"

"Mm. They must have lost her."

"D'you think she picked up the pup and ran?"

"I think so." He shakes his head. "Damn shame. Beautiful beast. Can't be many of them left." He looks at Jon. "What're you planning on doing with the little one?"

"I want to keep it," he says, despite not having decided that until this instant.

Tormund nods. "All right." He doesn't say anything more, but Jon gets the distinct impression he approves. Then he unfolds the tarp and hands Jon a pair of work gloves. "Help me shift her."

Jon braces himself, but he does as he's bid, helping Tormund lift the great beast onto the tarp. "What will you do with her?"

"Bury her on the farm, I suppose. There's that whole poaching thing to think of."

He gestures, and he and Jon drag the tarp carefully around the cottage to the truck. Lifting her up into the bed is a bit more of a struggle, and Jon falters a bit.

"Here." Tormund pushes his arm gently out the way and scoops his own under her great weight, settling the load on the bed and then securing the tarp over it more fully. Jon steps back, a frown on his face.

"Do you... want. I made an apple pie," he says, before he can stop himself, "do you want to come in-?"

"That's adorable," Tormund replies, grinning wide, barely even out of breath.

"No, I just was in the mood after... earlier. I don't know. Do you want some or not?"

"Thank you, lad. Of course."

He seems perplexed as he follows Jon back inside and turns on the tap to wash his hands. Jon does the same, turning on the kettle and getting out two plates and forks. A whine makes him look to the box, where the wolf puppy is scrabbling at the edges. His heart hurts at the sound, and he abandons the pie for a moment.  
He scoops the puppy up and cuddles it to his chest.

"So small. I don't even know what to feed him."

"You might need special food, if he's not fully weaned. The vet will know." Tormund digs in his pocket and extracts a piece of paper.

"You gave me the number," Jon murmurs, accepting it anyway.

"Well, I like to make sure of things." Tormund watches him, then moves to take over the pie-dishing process. "Got any beer?"

"With pie?" Jon squeaks. "I - that is, yes."

Tormund, apparently comfortable enough to do so already, opens the fridge and gets out two, looking around. "Looks like my Nan lives here, except my Nan isn't a square."

"I rented it furnished," Jon mumbles, taking a bottle.

"Thank the gods." Tormund brings him a beer and a plate like this s his house. "At the table?"

Jon shrugs. "As you like." He takes the puppy with him, sitting him on his lap and letting him chew his sleeve. "Thanks for uh - for coming," he says, a little awkwardly. "I don't usually ask favours of people I just met," he adds.

"I wouldn't know." Tormund grins.

"I'm telling you!" Jon flushes and takes a bite of pie.

"And of course I believe it." His grin, Jon thinks uncharitably, is knowing.

"I don't, I just don't know anyone up here except Sam and - well, I didn't think he'd be very helpful."

"Oh, Sam," Tormund says. Also knowingly.

"He. You know Sam?"

"Everyone at the market knows Sam and Gilly."

The thought makes Jon smile. "Oh?"

"Oh, aye."

"Why's that then?

"They're good customers, and very friendly. Unusual for Southerners."

“Gilly’s not a Southerner.”

“Oh, no, course not. Just spent a lot of time with one.” He gives Jon a wink. “Scandal of the day, I bet that was.”

"Certainly was," Jon mumbles.

Tormund eyes him sideways and he subsides again, petting the small white pup in his lap. He seems fractious, and Tormund watches a moment, then starts.

"I bought some formula. Had some from one of ours had pups that wouldn't take to feed. Let me get it for ye, it'll do as a stand in until you've seen the vet."

Jon nods. "Thanks," he says, genuinely grateful.

Tormund gets up, looking at his half eaten pie and chuckling as he goes.

Jon just watches the little white ears. The pup squirms and nuzzles at his hands. "I'm sorry," Jon tells him softly. "I know you're probably hungry."

When Tormund returns, he puts on the kettle and gets out a large bottle with a teat; a bag of formula and a mug from Jon's cupboard. Jon just watches, relatively taken aback at how he's made himself at home. But Jon had made a big ask, too. He doesn’t think he minds. Not much anyway. He watches Tormund add cold water to the warm formula to cool it down when it's mixed. Tormund watches him watching, expression oddly pleased, but he doesn't narrate.

When he brings the bottle over, he tests the temperature on his hand. "See how this goes."

"Just like a baby, huh?"

"Aye, but it might grow up to kill you."

Jon shrugs at that. "He can get in line."

Tormund raises a brow at that but smiles. He watches as Jon takes the bottle and offers it to the pup. A little encouraging and repositioning gets him sucking hungrily at the bottle, and he smiles helplessly.

"There we go." He watches his little tail go, and glances up at Tormund, grinning. The big man is already grinning back, and now he nods and reaches for his abandoned pie.

"This isn't the worst thing I've ever eaten," he says, like that's some huge accolade.

Jon snorts. "What was?"

Tormund looks intensely thoughtful. "Hard to say, lad. There were some hungry years."

Jon supposes he means before the borders were relaxed, treaties were signed. He sighs. He can't relate; he may not have been wanted, but he never went hungry.

Tormund is still watching him feed the pup. "What're you going to call him, then?"

He looks at the small white bundle for a moment. "Ghost," he says finally.

Tormund nods. "Ghost it is."

"I'm not very imaginative," Jon says shyly.

"S'all right, lad, you could call it Dog and it would still be a beast you've decided to care for."

Jon looks down at the bundle in his arms and sighs. "That he would. Thanks for coming," he adds.

"I'm happy to help," Tormund says. "Hope you come buy some more produce."

"Well, I owe you after flooring half your stock and then asking you to come pick up a dead wolf."

"We're already square on the apples. And I think I'm happy to have a favor in my back pocket," Tormund says teasingly.

"Your customer service is second to none," Jon snorts.

"You remember that." Tormund clears his plate to the sink. Then he takes up his beer, taking a long drink before he comes to sit back down opposite Jon. "How's he getting on?"

"Fine? I think?" He's been slowing down. Jon peers down at her, stroking his back gently. "So little. Do you think he'll grow to be the same size as the mum-?"

"Depends if he's a purebred, I imagine."

Jon tries not to think of the logistics of feeding a wolf. "Hm." He thinks Tormund is laughing at him a little. He glances up and tries to school his own expression.

"Trying to imagine the doggy bags," Tormund snickers.

Jon looks to the ceiling and sighs. "What have I done."

"Something kind, it appears."

Jon sighs once more. "Aye. Maybe. And so have you."

“One good turn deserves another,” Tormund says.

Nodding, Jon bites his lip. "So - you're a farmer."

"I am, yes. Family farm."

"Just crops, or livestock too-?"

"Aye, both, but for dairy instead of meat - I’m not much for killing beasts. But we have sheep for shearing and spinning."

Jon turns a bit pink. "Don't know much about it I'm afraid."

"That's all right, then, soldier boy."

Jon shrugs a shoulder up in admittance. "The Night's Watch isn't known for our cross-training."

"No, no. I've heard that." Jon bites his cheek and Tormund softens. "Tarly says you were one of the key negotiators for the border restrictions being lifted at the Wall."

Jon doesn't even wonder when he'd managed to talk to Sam, or if Sam had been talking about him before he even got here, he just nods. "My family -" he starts. Tormund tilts his head. "They're political," Jon shrugs. "I just do what I can."

"Mm, I've heard this and that about your family. Not much about you though, Jon Snow."

"There's not much to hear, I suppose."

"At least that's what they'd like people to think."

Jon shrugs, setting the bottle down. "I'm the family scandal, me and Samwell have that in common."

"Not you. Your father."

Jon shrugs again. "Same thing."

Tormund sips his beer. "Not a prideful man, are you? I like that. Pride makes people pricks."

Jon snorts. "You're not wrong." Still, it feels like a genuine compliment. He strokes Ghost's ears and thinks it over. "Don't have much to be proud of."

Tormund hums. "No? Well, you can bake a pie at least."

"Guess so." Jon smiles and sets the bottle down, feeling curiously warm as Ghost starts to settle in his arms.

He's glad for the pup's presence. "I was just thinking about how quiet it was around here, before this."

"It usually is," Tormund admits.

"Not tonight. I was - I felt lonely, I 'spose. Used to being surrounded by people - and then, this little thing."

"Well; then it's a good thing she showed up."

“Be better she was - in different circumstances, suppose. But. Yeah." He sighs again as he chews at his cuff. Absently, he picks up his own neglected beer and takes a sip. He can work with this.

Tormund swills the remains of his own in circles, peering into the neck of the bottle. "I should let you get settled, then."

"I should let you get back to whatever you were doing before you were touching a dead wolf. Thanks again for everything."

"Any time." He stands, draining his beer. Jon stands too, cradling the pup. "It's all right, boy, I know my way out."

Jon ducks his head. "All right. Have a good night?"

"And you. Thanks for the pie," Tormund grins. And then he goes, and Jon fidgets on the spot before hurrying to the side door to watch him back out of the lane, his hair looking almost blond in the glow of Jon’s porch light. An intriguing bloke, that. Less confusing than most people. Jon looks down at Ghost in his arms, and smiles. He feels less alone entirely.

*

The phone rings as he watches Ghost pounce unsuccessfully on small butterflies fluttering around the grass in Jon's back garden. He answers without taking his eyes off him, unable to keep the smile off his face.

"Hello?"

"Jon. You sound cheerful."

"That unusual?"

"Yes, if you must know."

"Fair play," Jon chuckles. "Hi, Arya. How are you?"

"I just went for a run on the beach. Hiking later. It's nice here. What about you?"

Not having a gap year in Dorne, that's for sure. "I found a dog. Ish."

"A dog?! What kind of dog?"

"I mean, point of fact is he might be a wolf."

A short, digesting silence. "A wolf?"

"A direwolf," he tells her with no small bit of embarrassment.

She laughs a little. "Are you serious?"

"Would I lie?"

"Not even to save your life."

He laughs. "Guess not."

"Do you have a photo?"

"Lots," he grins.

"Send me one."

"Promise."

"Right now!"

"Gods," he mumbles, putting her on speaker and fumbling open his photo app. He sends a handful of photos over the chat app and watches them load. Then he braces himself. She does not disappoint him with the squeal.

"Jon, gods, he's so _cute_."

"I know. I have Gilly coming over during the day to let him out while I'm at work, and I still hate leaving him."

"I don't know how you could."

"Well, I have a job, and I think they'd notice if I was gone."

"I doubt it."

"Thanks."

"I'm sure they'd understand if you show them these photos. Is it a boy?"

"Yeah," he says. "I've been calling him Ghost."

"He's gorgeous. And you found him- how?"

"In my garden. The mum had been injured by - a poacher maybe? She didn't make it."

"A direwolf just wandered into your garden."

"I know what it sounds like," Jon laughs.

"Sounds like you've taken up drinking," she laughs, "but I can see the photographic evidence you haven't, so..."

Jon snorts. "Thank goodness for that." He watches Ghost now in real time, carrying around a leaf he's found, browning with age.

"How _is_ your new posting?" Arya asks gently. "It's been a couple weeks now, yeah?"

"It's... it's fine. Sam being here makes it easier. I'm..." he sighs. "It's tiring at the minute."

"I'm sorry," Arya says. "I wish I could help."

"You do help. It's all right, I'm lucky to be alive and that's _good_, but at the minute I suppose I feel helpless, and useless. Before at least I was changing things. Now I just - try to convince people not to shoot people if they don't have to."

She hums. "That's not useless."

"I wear a shirt and tie while I do it."

"I bet you look sweet."

He huffs. "No."

Arya laughs. "You may not want to." She adds, absently. "You haven't met anyone else? Made any new friends? A girl maybe." She sounds a bit neutral on that - Jon has a feeling Arya views romance as an entirely optional facet to life.

"No, nothing like that."

"So you've just been sat in that cottage on your own?"

"I go to the pub. And the farmer's market."

That makes her laugh. "You sound like an old man!"

"I guess it's my destiny," he teases gently.

"Please." She hums.

"Hey, we can't all be the amazing Arya Stark."

"That's true. Do me a favour and text more puppy pics to the group chat, I want to see Sansa melt down."

"I will."

"And get some friends," she instructs.

He thinks fleetingly of Tormund coming over. "I. I'm trying."

"Good. I have hope for you yet."

"Generous of you," he laughs.

"Isn't it? I should go, though," she murmurs.

"All right. Wear sunscreen."

She laughs and hangs up on him. With a shake of his head, he gets up to intervene while Ghost tries to eat the leaf.

"No, little one," he tells him, tucking him under his arm and going inside for a bottle. He's getting very good at feeding him, now, and the veterinarian says he can start introducing regular food soon. He'll need special food for him, but that's fine. The vet hadn't made any noise about it being inadvisable to keep the pup; he'd barely batted an eye in fact. Maybe it's just… the North.

"No wildlife sanctuaries I suppose," he murmurs to himself, watching Ghost drink hungrily. Just wildlife everywhere. He wonders, not for the first time, what became of Ghost's mother. Thinks of Tormund mentioning bears. He should get a better fence.

For the rest of the day, he eyes the garden with critical eyes whenever he takes Ghost outside. Maybe he should ask if Tormund has any contacts there, too.

He looks at his phone on the side table. It feels presumptuous somehow, so he resists, instead busying himself with tidying up and getting ready for bed. He has tomorrow off - training exercises he's not a part of - and he plans to take a nice long run. The tweaking pain in his chest is just from being cooped up, he thinks, not stretching enough.

At least, that's what Lannister's latest email suggests. _Do your PT_, Jaime had written, with a smiley face. The smiley face had felt strangely sarcastic. He's not sure he likes being known.

Regardless, he thinks of the smiley face as he puts on his running gear the next day. He's like to take Ghost but he seems quite happy in the pen. Besides, Jon’s not sure he's big enough for such excursions yet.

He stretches in his front garden before turning out his lane, admiring the way the late sunlight hugs the hills. It's cool but the breeze is warm, and he picks up a steady pace. His legs soon start feeling loose.

He kicks up his speed, letting his mind roll with the cycle of legs, breath, blood roaring. He feels the moment the adrenaline takes over, makes everything smooth and easy. There's a pull in his chest, but he's used to that. He's afraid it will never go away. Like the knowing, waiting dark when he closes his eyes.

The road gets hillier in front of him. He tries to pace himself, and at first it's fine, but the deeper breaths soon have him struggling, ribs tight from strain with so much scar tissue knotting them up. He decides to stop by a stone wall, then concedes slowly that he needs to lean on it. The pain in his chest seems to grow more insistent, and he turns to the wall, gripping it, trying to keep the panic from flooding in.

Breathe, Jon, breathe.

It must just be cramp, he's sure. Just a cramp… but a bad one nonetheless.

He didn't bring his cellphone. Fuck. He'll just...sit here for a while. He lowers himself down, trying to press on his own chest to stifle the pain.

Gods. At least it's a fine day. It'll go off soon, he's sure.

He closes his eyes and tries to breathe. He can hear a low whirring in the distance. Sounds like some sort of farm equipment. Jon leans his head back against the wall and waits out another twist of cramp, trying to focus on the sound. It's getting closer. And then it stops.

Jon opens his eyes. A big green tractor, and Tormund, russet hair blustering in the wind, his cheeks pinked and another jumper on under his denim overalls. He's climbing down, boots caked in mud and sleeves rolled up.

"Is this a Southern crow huddled by my wall?"

"Uh?" Jon squints. "Sorry, I can move."

"It's not a problem, laddie. Are you all right?"

"Just a stitch. Overdid it."

"You look pretty green for a stitch," Tormund says. "Can I give you a lift home?"

"No, no, I'm fine, I'm sorry."

"At least come back to the house for a cold drink," Tormund says easily.

Distantly, Jon thinks he can feel the edge of the pain starting to lift, but it feels slow progress. He squints against another sharp wave, and then startles when Tormund's great arm comes behind his back, pulling Jon's arm over his shoulder. He lifts Jon like he weighs nothing.

"I'm fine," Jon lies, blushing furiously. Tormund ignores him, lifting him up onto the tractor. "Gods," Jon mutters, watching him walk around the side of the wheel to come to the other door.

He's just going to… let this happen then. He's not sure he's not being kidnapped. Albeit by an extremely friendly farmer. Also, when in his life has he ever been in a tractor?

Momentarily distracted from his chest, he looks sidelong at Tormund. "What are you doing here?"

Tormund eyes him with amusement - perhaps a little toleration - and starts the tractor again. "I live here."

"What, in this tractor?"

"Yes, welcome to my lounge." Tormund chuckles. "This is my farm. I'm taking you back to the house now."

Jon wants to say he didn't know he was so close, but another stab of pain renders him to just nodding. He braces himself for the rumbling ride back up a gravel drive. "You were on your way back?"

"Sure." It's pretty clearly a lie but Jon can't figure out how to say so. He just sighs again and watches the fields go by. Out here it's mostly pasture, but he can see rows of vegetable plantings behind the house. "So, just a stitch?" Tormund says eventually. He's steering them into a farmyard and turning off the engine.

Jon takes a breath, and nods. "Just a stitch."

A glare from his host means he waits until Tormund comes round to offer him a hand before climbing down from the cab. He's warm as a furnace. It makes Jon twitchy to be touched, but he realizes it's meant as a kindness. He seems to pull back quickly, so maybe it shows.

Jon sighs. Forever awkward. "Sorry," he mutters.

"You're fine. Lemonade?" Tormund asks gruffly.

"Sure." Jon walks shakily after him, wondering if he should call a doctor, looking around. The farmhouse Tormund shows him into is pristine and host to a homely kitchen and a surprising profusion of band equipment in the living area. "D'you live alone?" he asks curiously.

"I have various cousins who stay for various reasons. They help me run the farm."

"Hm." Jon isn't sure what that means.

"Yes, I live alone," Tormund rephrases, "kind of." He walks over and hands Jon a glass, looking amused.

"Nice place," Jon says, still touching his chest, the sharp ache only just starting to ease.

"Thanks," Tormund replies. "Are you going to be all right?"

"I think so. Thank you by the way," he takes a sip of the drink. "So," he says once he's managed to sit down on a kitchen chair, "we're basically neighbors."

"You're not that close to home, you must have run a long way - but I suppose so."

"Just a few miles," Jon shrugs.

"Just a few miles, sure."

"I like to run. It's my thing."

Tormund seems to find that very amusing too. Jon supposes someone who does a lot of farm work doesn't really need a fitness routine. He can't stop looking around.

"Don't worry, the Southerner scalps are in the other room," Tormund jokes.

Jon pauses, then laughs nervously, not quite managing to duck when Tormund reaches out and touches his own little knot of hair.

"Not many dark heads up here, y'know, we find them quite interesting."

Jon feels his cheeks heat. "I mean. Same. The opposite, that is."

"It'll go great with my collection," Tormund raises one red eyebrow on a slightly menacing grin. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," Jon says, sure it's at least partly true.

"You need me to call a doctor?"

Jon shakes his head. "No, it'll pass. It always does."

"It happens a lot?"

Here it is, the moment he'll have to explain. "Caught a chestful of shrapnel in the chest about a year ago," he says. "Technically, I died. But they saved me. It's been… a long year."

Tormund digests that a moment, and then he gets up and goes to the fridge, bringing back another pitcher of lemonade and a Tupperware that he produces two truly massive slices of cake from, setting one down in front of Jon in a no-nonsense sort of way.

"Thanks," Jon says wryly.

"Better than running," Tormund rumbles.

"Looks like a reason to run more, to me."

"Like the fucking bears and wolves weren't enough. How's that pup of yours?"

Jon smiles. "He's doing well. The vet thinks I can wean him soon."

"That's good."

"Let's wait to decide until I see how much he eats," Jon laughs.

"Yeah? He getting big?"

Jon nods. "The paws are frightening."

Tormund laughs at that. "You did see the mum, at least."

"Yeah, I'm worried."

They smirk at one another. Then Tormund takes a big bite of cake. "You know, if you need raw meat, I have a cousin who raises beef cattle."

"I might take you up on that." He eats his own cake. "Is it a cousin who lives here?"

"I told you I live alone."

"You said kind of."

"Everyone lets themselves in as they please and a lot of us have neighbouring farms. Sort of an open house all over."

Winterfell could have been like that, Jon thinks. But it wasn't. His eyes skim over Tormund's arms as he rolls up his shirt sleeves; the peek of ink on his forearm.

"This is good cake, did you make this?"

"Nah, not this time. Someone brought it over, they all know I'm always hungry."

"Suppose when you're farming all day you work up an appetite." He looks stronger than any army man Jon has ever known, the kind of thick muscle that builds from labour more than exercise. Jon has difficulties looking away, actually. Tormund is something else. Something Jon has never experienced before.

He seems to be examining Jon with equal interest. Jon flushes and eats more cake.

"What do you do at the Wall then?"

"I'm a trainer for the recruits," Jon says, sipping his drink. “Used to be in the Watch, it’s a new thing for me.”

"Oh aye? Training them in what?"

"It's a procedural course. Very basic, they all take it. I used to do specialized weapons training, but -" Jon gestures broadly.

"The stitch."

"Yes, that." Jon eats another chunk of cake and sighs. "It's nice here."

"Thanks," Tormund grins. "I like to think so."

"How's the roof? If it's a free house..." Jon grins.

"Not currently leaking," Tormund answers. "Is yours still?"

"It's... okay. I'm still chasing someone about actually fixing it."

"Well, that's bollocks," Tormund says. "Who's your landlord?"

"Well, it's one of the Watch's properties but it's a big place, lot of maintenance to do, my roof not exactly a priority, of course."

"That won't do. I'll come by and sort it for you when I take you home."

"No, it's, it hasn't rained in days and you've already done far too much."

"Do you have the slates that have come loose?" Tormund continues, clearly having stopped listening.

"Yes but - Tormund, it’s fine, you have things to do, I don't want to - I don't mind, I can wait. I don't want you to rescue me for the third time this week, that's just embarrassing."

"Oh, face it, you're already embarrassed," Tormund says easily. "Might as well go for broke."

Ears heating up, Jon shrugs. "Well, at least let me pay you."

"If you pay me, I'll just drop a box of vegetables on your doorstep," Tormund replies.

"But that's - I have to at least take you for a drink."

"Deal." His smile is strangely accomplished. Jon can't help but grin himself as he pokes at the remainder of his cake, overfaced but gratefully. He keeps it pointed at his plate. "How's your chest?" Tormund says softly.

"Better," Jon says, though he knows he can't run home like this.

"Good. You rest for as long as you want. I just have to go check on how things are getting along but - I'll be ten minutes, all right?"

"All right," Jon murmurs.

"Look around if you want. Sit on the couch. Whatever." Tormund gestures as he washes his hands, spraying the window with water; the plants there.

Jon nods, ducking his head. He might want to go out and see the animals. "Could I come with you-?"

"Sure," Tormund smiles.

Pleased, Jon brings his plate and empty glass to the sink, feeling overfamiliar and helplessly stupid, but okay with it. Tormund is so easygoing.

He looks around as Tormund washes their plates, using the distraction to take in the many piles of books on the sideboard; chipped crockery. This house feels lived-in. Drying his hands on a towel, Tormund herds Jon toward the door, where a small collection of dogs run to greet him in the courtyard.

"Sheepdogs," Tormund explains, whistling and sending them off into the pasture.

"I don't mind," Jon smiles.

"Guess not." He winks and strides out toward the barn.

Jon follows with wide eyes. There are so many sheep in there.

"Shearing season," Tormund explains. “They need doing before it gets too cold, but if we leave them over winter they’ll be walking fucking yarn by spring.”

Soon even more join them thanks to the dogs. There's two men - farmhands, friends of the family, Tormund explains - herding them into railings and shearing them one after the other. Tormund goes and chats with them both for a few minutes over the bleating, squeezing Jon's shoulder as he walks by. Jon aimlessly pats a sheep - they seem very amicable.

Soon, Tormund is steering him back out and past a chicken coop. Jon peers back at them as they walk - there seem to be a lot of fancy ones, fluffy or colourful. Tormund sees him looking and says, "don't ask."

"Okay. Where are we going?"

"To get you some vegetables, then to my truck."

"But- no, if you give me vegetables then I won't be able to buy more on Saturday..!"

Tormund cracks out a giant laugh. "Oh, crow, I really enjoy you."

Jon's mouth opens, and then closes. His face burns.

"You'd better come see me on Saturday then," Tormund tells him.

"I will - I could take you for that drink."

"I won't say no to that."

"Great, I should come when it's finishing then?"

"Aye," Tormund grins, herding him toward the truck.

"Okay, okay," Jon skips a little, "are we leaving-?"

"We ought to. I know you didn't intend to end up here, watching me feed chickens."

"I don't mind," Jon says, quickly, "I don't want to rush you if you have things to do. Though - I should get back to Ghost soon I suppose."

"It's not far," Tormund agrees easily. He gives Jon a bucket of brain to scatter in the hen coop. Jon walks back over and upends it, watching the little fluffy bodies converge. "That one looks like you," Tormund says, pointing at a black one.

Jon grins, nodding. "It even has curly hair."

"Feathers," Tormund chuckles. They both crack up a little at that. Jon points to a rooster, red and large, and then directs a pointed grin at Tormund. He promptly strikes a pose, chest puffed out. "At least it's not one of the sheep."

"No, no, the cock is much better."

Tormund cracks out a laugh, setting off a wave of clucks. "That's me, a great big cock," he chuckles.

Jon feels himself blushing again. "You called me a crow before, how come?"

"Sometimes you look like one, all ruffled." He grins. "And you wear a lot of black."

Jon rolls his eyes, not denying it. He watches interestedly as one chicken, glossy and with bottle green accenting plumage, comes and sits on his training shoe. "Uh. Tormund?"

He looks, and just seems to find it moderately inconvenient. "Must be comfortable."

"I guess?" Jon knows he's making a surprised face.

Tormund laughs. "Just nudge her off if you want, birds are odd creatures."

Gingerly, Jon does. The little hen just trots off.

"Not many chickens in Winterfell?"

"Not really."

Tormund claps his shoulder gently. "Come on. Let me get you back to that pup. I'll bring my toolbox. You got a ladder?"

"I… think so, yeah, behind the shed."

"I've got some slates from when we did our reroof a while back if yours are broken, is it slate?"

Jon nods. "But, you really don't have to -"

"I know what I have to do. Come on."

He disappears into another barn and comes back with a box that is clearly heavy from the way his arm muscles cord. Jon holds his hands out to help but Tormund just shakes his head and leads the way to a flatbed.

Jon circles round to climb into the passenger seat. He watches Tormund arrange the slates in the flatbed, securing them carefully before he comes to to driver's side. It's only minutes until they're pulling into his own lane.

"You really are close."

"I'm a very good neighbour too," Tormund grins.

"You certainly seem it. I'll have to step up my game."

"I'll look forward to it," Tormund teases.

Jon just shyly smiles. He goes immediately to the door to check on Ghost. Tormund hangs back to grab the tool box, giving Jon opportunity to hurriedly dump last night's dishes in the sink after he's opened the door for Ghost. His place isn't neat like Tormund's, but it's really not that bad. By the time Tormund has brought in the box of slates and the tools, Ghost is back in and the sides have been wiped.

"Keep hold of her, I’ll set the ladder up outside and see what I can do," Tormund tells him briskly, and Jon nods and stands in the kitchen, trying to make himself useful by at least fixing Tormund a cup of tea.

When he takes it outside, Tormund has the ladders up and is standing at the top, peering at the hole on the roof.

"Okay, this is worse than I expected but I still have enough tiles," he announces. "It'll be a patch job but it'll do."

Jon sighs. He's sure it will. "Can I help-?"

"Just stay here, and make sure I don’t fall off." Tormund grins.

Jon does as he's told, staring up at Tormund while he carefully knocks the slates back into place. He clearly knows what he's doing, and soon the gap in his roof is covered over by slates, a little differently spaced than the original tiles but perfectly neat. Tormund carefully puts his supplies back in the tool box and lowers it down to Jon before he climbs down.

"It's not a long term solution," Tormund tells him, "but it'll keep the rain out. You might want to have some plaster board slapped back in there."

"Thanks," Jon murmurs when Tormund is back on the ground.

"It's no problem." Tormund crouches to hold a hand out to Ghost, who excitedly licks and sniffs it. "What a big lad you are," he croons. Ghost yips excitedly, and Tormund laughs and roughs him gently with one great hand. "He howl yet?"

Jon gives him a terrified face, and he laughs again.

"He will, don't worry."

"Gods. Well. You're so helpful, but I won't keep you?"

"Don't worry about it. Any time. It's not a bother if I offered, Jon Snow. Hell, might even enjoy your company."

"Oh, well then." He bites his lip, pleased for some reason, but Tormund brushes himself off and gestures.

"At least your roof won't leak."

"No, no. Thank you, I really do appreciate it. Drinks on me on Saturday."

"Deal." Tormund gives Ghost one more stroke, and then takes himself down the drive, incongruously tall as he ducks under Jon’s gated archway. “Good night, Jon Snow.”

“Night, Tormund.” Jon watches him go with an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach, and then picks Ghost up to take him back inside. Time for a shower, he supposes, and then playing with Ghost until he's worn out.

He enjoys that this is what his evenings consist of, honestly. Watching the pup is completely joyful. He hasn't got a mean bone in his body. And he never, ever seems disappointed in Jon, not even when he leaves him all day - though he knows Gilly is giving him treats whenever she stops by. He's getting a tummy on him.

He can't wait until he's old enough to run with him. He thinks Ghost'll like it too.

He makes himself a cup of tea and gives him dinner, settling in on his porch to drink it. His mind lingers on Tormund. He doesn't exactly understand why he's been adopted, though it's clear he has. Whatever the reason, he's grateful, and happy to buy as many beers as he wants.

He pauses at an alert on his phone - Jaime Lannister, reminding him about their appointment tomorrow. Always a freaking pleasure.

Jon thinks about it as he lies in bed, a while later, listening to Ghost chewing something he hopes isn't his shoe. It's not Jaime's fault. Precisely. Though he can be incredibly unpleasant. Part of it is the feeling that they have a lot in common.

Jon understands the pressure of being the disappointment in a military, upper class family all too well. There's bad blood between the Lannisters and the Starks, too. Jaime and Jon try not to acknowledge it. There's always bad blood somewhere. Jon's sick of it. There's less up here at the Wall. So far, at least. He hopes it stays that way.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s dreaming of the battle, of the bombs, when his alarm goes off. Despite the nightmare already fading into the back of his mind, Jon can feel himself sweat drenched and shivery with adrenaline, his temperature high and hands aching from where he’s been clenching his fists. In the blue dawn of his room, he breathes into the open air, trying to remind himself he’s safe, and slowly does his breathing exercises.

When the panic finally recedes like a wave crawling back to join the ocean, he forces himself up to take Ghost for a wander, leaving plenty of time so he's back at the house for when his call with Jaime is scheduled. He can't help a long glance down the road towards Tormund's place, but it's too far to go today.

In the early morning light, the sky is yellow, the air crisp and cool. Everything is green and soft around him. Ghost leaps and bounds, ears bouncing. He smiles to see him as he chases leaves and rabbits, a streak of whispy white among the tall grasses of the moors. He doesn't try to keep up; Ghost always comes back to check in. He's unbearably cute; an antidote for just about anything.

When he's flopped in the grass with exhaustion, Jon picks him up and carries him back - they haven't gone far. He makes tea and sets his laptop up on the kitchen table. Ghost chews on a squeaky toy loudly enough for him to feel faintly anxious about it as he loads the call programme on the tenuous internet connection.

Soon Jaime's face fills his screen, more bearded than the last time they spoke. Jon supposes his is too. No regs, he reminds himself.

"Hi."

"Hi, Snow. How are things?"

"Things are - very green. And spread out." He chuckles a bit.

"Sounds about right. And your new students?"

"Ah - I think there's a good mix of abilities but they all seem - capable."

"Better than the alternative."

"Aye, you're right there." A small silence, knowing. Jon smiles awkwardly. "I got a dog."

"Oh really? That's great, Jon. I didn't know you liked dogs."

"Neither did I." Jaime raises a brow. Jon smiles helplessly. "Turns out I do."

"Good. Positivity is what you need."

"Sure." He feels faintly embarrassed by the idea.

"Have you spoken about your injury with anyone on base?" Jaime asks.

"No, except Davos and Sam, but - they were there." He thinks fleetingly of Tormund and bites his lip. "It hurts sometimes, still. More than usual."

"You've told the doctor?" Jaime's voice is even. Nonjudgmental, but expectant.

"Not... yet. I will."

"Make sure you do."

He nods sombrely.

"You're still who you always are," Jaime tells him, once again knowing.

"Aye. I know that." Jon can't help the measure of disappointment in his voice. Maybe that's the problem.

Jaime sighs quietly. In the background, a familiar voice, and he turns to answer someone out of shot. "Bri, I'm just on a call. Yeah. Okay." Back to Jon. He smiles. "We can all change, Snow."

Jon nods automatically, studying the way the smile changes his face.

"Right," Jaime continues, starting to click around on his computer to find a file, "let's go through your notes you emailed me, you said something about bad dreams..."

Jon sighs. This is why he rolls his eyes at Jaime, honestly. They talk, Jaime easily and Jon less so. Ghost serves as a welcome distraction, but by the end of the hour Jon feels more exhausted than he did when he woke up. Jaime wishes him well and Jon returns the sentiment, as earnestly as he's able. He feels tender, and feeble, even though he knows it's not the case. He was planning to go back to work this afternoon, but it seems daunting now.

He picks up the puppy and cradles him gently. Davos had said to let him know if he needed extra time. He hates to ask.

He strokes Ghost, his nose seeking his, wet and warm. "Okay," he tells him. He calls Davos.

The man is happy to agree to a day off, which Jon had expected. He sits for a moment after he's hung up, and tries to remember when he wasn't so tired. He can't quite. Resigned, he drops himself back into bed, Ghost burrowing into his side.

In the dark, cool room, his breathing settles. Outside, the sound of warm Autumn rain. He thinks he could sleep.

That thought propels him up, and out of bed: he can rest later. Now, he's going to clean up, and maybe figure out how to use the other vegetables he bought from Tormund before Saturday.

He puts some music on to keep his mind occupied. Starts on some meal prep and small jobs; feeds Ghost when he's made some headway and then watches him play in the garden for a while. It feels strange, he acknowledges, to be alone with his thoughts. If the army is good for anything, it's giving you a sense of routine. He'll have to find himself a new one.

*

Saturday soon rolls back around after Jon goes back to work, and the morning after his run finds him staring despondently at his closet for several minutes, internally debating. There’s a lot of black, he notes absently, some grey.

He pulls out one of the grey items, a soft cable knit jumper, and puts it on with his favorite jeans, then looks doubtfully in the mirror. His hair is still wet from the shower, and he looks tired, but it’s not awful. Certainly good enough for the pub on a Saturday night, but is it good enough for - well. It's not actually a date.

“You look fine,” he tells himself, exasperated by his own hesitance. He looks like he always does. No need to dress up, except that feels weirdly not good enough.

It's not, he tells himself firmly until he remembers, a date. Jon doesn't date men anyway, and he only dates women when they inform him that he is. And he hasn't been informed for some time, so, it's just beer with the farmer who keeps saving his ass. A nice guy who likes him for some incomprehensible reason, that probably incorporates at least a little amusement. Fine. Nice.

In the mirror, a little white shadow comes to slump against his leg. He picks Ghost up and coos over him.

"Next time, I'll take you with me to market," he promises, sputtering when it elicits excited licks in return. He kisses Ghost’s furry head and then sets him in his crate, promising himself he need only utilise it only a short while longer.

He still frets about Ghost on the short drive to town. He should get a pet cam, maybe. Gods, do they even sell those up here? He could ask Sansa to order one, he could get it next time he goes home... god, this is who he is now.

Pulling into the lay-by at the farmer’s market, he shakes his head at himself. It's late now, afternoon, so it's not as crowded, and everything looks moderately more dishevelled than it had at the start of play last week, the weather having wreaked havoc on the fields and the stores selling down.

Despite his urge to beeline straight for Tormund, Jon makes himself wander first; picks those candles for the girls, as well as more honey for his breakfast. Slowly, he becomes aware of eyes on him and glances over to Tormund's stall.

The smile he shoots him is so big Jon nearly stumbles into a stand of homemade pies in surprise, thankful that Tormund is distracted by a customer in the instant, so he doesn’t have to endure any more jokes about throwing himself to his knees around him.

Smiling at the thought, he meanders over to the Gianstbane and Family stall.

"You survived without calling me again," Tormund says, feigning shock.

"I usually do."

"Just my lucky week then," Tormund chuckles.

"Is that what you call it?"

"Absolutely I would."

"Can I help?" Jon asks, partially to distract from his rapidly pinking ears.

"Sure, grab that basket over there."

Jon shuffles over to heft the basket of leftover potatoes he's pointed to - the crowd is starting to thin even though it’s not too late, the clouds overhead threatening chilly rain. They carry them toward Tormund's pick up, parked on the grass against the fence. There's not much much - he's sold most of it, to judge by the empties. A stack of those next, and Jon barely feels the strain in his chest.

"You are feeling better," Tormund comments.

"I'm fine." It sounds defensive even to him.

"You are," Tormund repeats cheerfully. He slaps Jon affectionately on the back as they walk back for more.

A few stall holders come to speak with him while they load up, and between banter, Tormund trades goods with a few of them. Jon just keeps loading, half-listening but happy enough to be distracted, dimly aware of Tormund watching him, though he’s not precisely sure why. Whatever the reason, it makes him feel slightly warm.

Eventually, Tormund stops him on his way back, one last basket under his arm. "This is the last of it."

"Great," Jon murmurs. "Should we walk from here, then? Or drive?"

"We can walk? Says it’s gonna rain but - we’re not made of sugar."

“You’re certainly not.” Jon accepts a gentle shove with a laugh, waiting for Tormund to lock up his truck and pocket his keys.

"There's a local not far from here - bit rough for the likes of you, maybe," Tormund says absently.

"What's that mean, then? I'm not - I'm -" Jon stammers himself to a stop.

"Fancy? 'Course you are. Your dad's a _Lord_."

"That doesn't mean I am," Jon mutters, stung until he sees the teasing light in Tormund's eye.

"No, no. I bet you're just like us lot."

"I just dye the ginger hair," Jon retorts.

"Don't joke about such things."

"Oh no, you'll be able to tell I'm an imposter."

"Don't worry, we're not like you lot. We never built a wall."

Ouch. The cheerful farmer has claws tonight.

"I didn't bloody build it," Jon snips, "in fact, all my work in the army was opening the restrictions on it, you know that."

"Aye," Tormund soothes.

Jon looks away, embarrassed. "So where are we going?"

"Not far now. Just a tavern."

"All we need is beer, and a place to sit and talk," Jon says.

"That's all it is."

"That's fine." Jon offers him a smile.

Tormund smiles back.

"It's good to see you back on your feet," he says cheerfully.

"As opposed to in the foetal position near your farm?" Jon has to laugh.

"Well, I wasn't going to mention it."

"Sure you weren't."

"Only to boast of my wisdom and kindness."

"A well-earned right," Jon assures.

"Ooh, flattery. I like you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Aye. That I do."

"It's mutual," Jon mutters.

"Aww," Tormund coos, leading him off the street to an awninged door. He holds the door for Jon, who ducks in under his arm with a grin.

He touches Tormund's wrist - "Get us a table and I'll go buy beers."

Looking amused, Tormund goes.

Jon ignores him: this is his thank-you, he's buying the beers.

He gets two pints in, trying not to feel self conscious at how out of place he is, but he's not getting… too many looks, though the bartender does ask him if he’d like a champagne flute.

“Do you have any?” Jon quips, and at the negative silence, just picks up their mugs. “These’ll do.”

He wanders to find Tormund, setting down their drinks carefully. "How was the market today?"

"Bit slow. I was glad when company showed up." Tormund winks. "Though, a bit apprehensive about the apples."

"Ouch," Jon replies.

"I'm a business man, Jon, these things are a concern."

"You're a concern."

A rumble of laughter at that. "Ever since I was a lad," Tormund agrees.

"I can't imagine that." It makes him grin to think about it.

"I'm sure you can."

"I'm not very imaginative. Ghost startles me sometimes with how big he's getting."

"Imagine him the size of a donkey, you'll be getting there," Tormund says.

Jon groans. "Gonna need a bigger dog bed."

"He might need his own room."

"Thankfully, I have a spare," Jon chuckles.

"Yeah you do," Tormund says agreeably, taking a long sip of his beer before he speaks again, voice thoughtful. "Tell me something you want me to know.”

The surprising intensity of it makes Jon quiet for a moment while he thinks.

"I miss my sisters," he says finally, “and Bran.”

"Yeah? What're they like?"

"Nothing like me or each other," Jon laughs softly.

"I'm gonna need a bit more than that."

"Bran is steady, and calm, and so smart. Maybe the smartest, wisest man I know.”

“Isn’t Bran…”

“Aye, yeah.” Jon waves off Tormund’s surprised look. “Then my youngest sister Arya is a risk-taker, an adventurer."

"Definitely not like you," Tormund teases

Jon shrugs. "She's not like anyone, really."

"And your other sister?"

Jon smiles at the thought of Sansa. "Beautiful. Ladylike. Terrifyingly capable."

"She sounds like my oldest," Tormund muses, fondness in his expression.

Jon boggles at him a little. "You have kids?"

"Two daughters. They live with their ma."

"You're… divorced?" Jon hazards, smiling when Tormund’s nose wrinkles at the foreign terminology.

"Nah, we were together maybe five years, on and off."

Never married, then. Jon doesn't know why that's a particular point of interest.

"Do they ever visit?"

"Occasionally, aye. They're too cool for me at the minute."

Jon snorts. "I can't imagine why."

"Teenagers," Tormund muses.

The way he says it is so fond, so fatherly. Tormund couldn't have been more than a teenager himself when they were born, Jon thinks. He wants to ask how old he is, but it seems rude. Not important, certainly. None of his business. He goes back to safe territory - his sisters. "Sansa is the only one still at home."

"She not as bright as the others?”

"Quite the opposite, just the one least constitutionally inclined to wander," Jon jokes. “She’s always been the right person to run the joint. She’s good at it, and she’s well-loved there.”

"A homebird, mm? Likes being a big fish."

"The North isn’t exactly a little pond, and I think it took her a while to realise that- but… something like that."

"It’s a much littler pond than the one you’re in now, little crow," Tormund says knowingly, then he laughs to himself. "Your siblings all ended up with their own little kingdoms, and you’re the one who ended up in the most unruly place in the world."

“It’s not my Kingdom.”

“You look at it like it is. Like you really like it here.”

“I do,” Jon says, genuinely, thinking of fiery hair again; a smile that makes him sad to remember. “I always have, since I first joined the watch.”

“You don’t ever miss the ‘North’?”

“I miss my siblings, but.” Jon shrugs. “I love the North, but it isn’t where I’m from. It’s not where I was born. I don’t even know if I miss Winterfell that much.”

"So you're not an adventurer, or a homebird either. Just a wanderer. You’re not afraid of missing out like your Sansa."

"No, I'm happy to miss everything, and hear about it later."

Tormund smiles. "What if it happens to you?"

"It never does," Jon mumbles.

Tormund reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "It does now that you're up here."

Jon laughs. "I did get a dog I suppose."

"And in quite a spectacular fashion."

"I suppose so."

"And you met a dashing farmer," Tormund reminds him.

"Who was that again? One of your cousins?"

Tormund gasps, mock-offended. "And to think I fixed your roof."

Jon shrugs, hiding a smile. "Maybe I'll ask your cousin next time."

Tormund gasps. "Ungrateful little bird.” He slaps Jon's shoulder with enough force to make him slosh his beer, but it’s playful, and Jon can’t keep from laughing.

He looks up at Tormund fondly.

"I'm deeply wounded," Tormund reassures him.

"Good, I've succeeded in bursting your ego."

A burr of laughter at that. "Never happen."

"You're right." Jon smiles and sips his beer.

Eventually, when Jon refreshes their drinks, Tormund stops pretending to pout.

"So you miss your sisters," he says. "Guess it's my turn to answer a question."

"You seeing anyone now?" Jon asks.

It takes Tormund a moment to answer, the silence surprised and analysing while Jon waits, confused.

"No," Tormund says finally.

"You don't sound sure."

"Yeah, I'm not, I suppose."

"Yeah? Got another daughter on the way?" Jon grins.

Tormund snorts. "Nope."

"Someone new?"

"Someone who's caught my eye."

"They must be something."

"They are," Tormund murmurs, lips twitching slightly, “unfortunately, they’re a little difficult to pin down.”

"Well, good luck." Jon sips his beer. He feels uncomfortable at the thought of Tormund having some fascination he didn’t know about, which is stupid, because he’s the one who fucking asked. He just isn't relishing the thought of his only non-watch friend being - not around as much. Which is probably selfish.

It's gone uncomfortably quiet between them now. Jon knows this is his fault.

"You have guitars," he observes, stupidly.

"Sure do."

"You're in a band?"

"Sometimes. Mostly not."

"What do you play?"

"Oh, anything I need to."

"What do you like playing?"

"Folk-Rock, I guess you would call it."

"I meant instruments," Jon chuckles.

"All of them. Guitar the best, I suppose."

"I tried to learn, but my fingers are too short," Jon says sadly, stretching his hand out to examine them.

"So delicate, little crow."

"Just stubby and small, more like." Jon tilts his head as Tormund stretches his big hand out next to his. Their fingertips touch.

"Well, you know what they say about small hands," Tormund says sagely.

Jon makes a surprised noise. "Don't be rude!"

"Don't be defensive."

"You've attacked my manhood."

"I'm sure it's very nice."

"Of course it's nice."

"The best things, small packages. Like you, little crow."

Jon feels himself blushing.

"Don't be a shit," he mutters.

"Sorry, that's genetic."

"No excuses."

Tormund grins down at him, his whole severe face made warm with it, cheeks pink and eyes startlingly blue. In the firelight of the little pub, his eyelashes look golden. He holds his gaze until Jon has to look away.

"I'll get us another round."

He goes; comes back with shorts to go with their pints instead. When he comes back, Tormund still looks thoughtful, and Jon gives him a moment before he tilts his head.

“Have you ever seen a Direwolf before that night at mine?”

"I never have. How is he?"

“He’s beautiful. He seems to grow more every day. I suppose part of me is worried he’ll turn out too much for me but, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“Dogs are easy, I’m sure he won’t be too much for you. They trust their own. You’re his now.”

The thought makes Jon smile: their own little pack. He never really felt like part of the pack with the Starks, but he does more and more with his siblings.

"Is it… normal to never want to leave them at home?"

"In my experience." Tormund grins. "You want to get back to him?"

"I mean. I'm glad to be out, but I seriously considered if they'd let me bring him in a bar first."

"He's maybe a bit young. Don't want him to catch anything he shouldn't. We could go back to yours if you're worried."

"I'm not worried," he says hurriedly. “I like being here with you.”

"Good lad." Tormund reaches out and squeezes Jon's shoulder. "Let's go, pick up some takeaway, and go back there anyway, eh?"

Jon turns red. "I... You're sure? I'm having a nice time, I'm not being-"

"So am I," Tormund interrupts him gently. "Come on. I'm hungry now."

They settle up and leave the bar, blinking against the evening sun, flooding the skyline crimson as it sinks below the teeth of the mountain peaks.

After walking to the only food joint within walking distance, they head back toward the farmers' market for a car.

Tormund tilts his head toward Jon's. "Follow you home?"

Two beers is under the limit, Jon thinks, nodding. He lets Tormund lead, though, driving carefully.

Once they're at the house, Jon pauses at a strange noise coming from inside, a whimper of some kind. Panic seizes at his insides.

"Shit," he mutters, patting himself down for the keys. He gets the door open in record time, and is confronted by the sound of... howling.

"Ghost!" he calls out, concerned.

Behind him, Tormund is laughing.

"What?" Jon blusters.

"I told ye."

"Told me what?" Jon has already let himself into the kitchen and opened the crate.

"That he'd find his howl soon!"

Gods preserve him, he'll give him a heart attack. He's bouncing now in the crate, yipping and trying to get close to him, tail wagging wildly. Jon kneels on the floor and lets him out, the desperate yipping enough to break his heart.

“It’s all right, little Ghost,” Jon tells him softly, accepting a snout in his ear; enthusiastic cleaning of the reachable areas. He looks up at Tormund apologetically: he’s chucked their bag of take out rather unceremoniously on the counter.

"Go on," Tormund laughs. "I'll dish up the food."

Standing, Jon holds onto Ghost tightly while he snuffles into the crook of his neck, watching Tormund move around his kitchen with that surprising familiarity as always.

"You bring your big fancy TV with ye, Jon Snow?" He asks, apparently having spied it on the way in.

Jon smiles, arms still full of squirming, hungry wolf pup. "I don't go out much, so."

"Always been like that, or just since you died?"

"Always," Jon confirms wryly.

Tormund smiles at him softly. "I can see it."

"What, that I'm boring?" Jon laughs. "I am. When I was young I only liked combat sports, and not much has changed except now I'm not allowed to do combat sports."

"That just means you need some new experiences, Jon."

"I got a dog didn't I? Started going to the farmer's market."

"Aye, that you did." Tormund looks oddly fond as he nods Jon toward the living room, carrying two plates.

Jon puts Ghost down and quickly washes his hands, and the pup bounces after him into the living room and starts to wrestle the boot off his foot where he's sat on the sofa. He just ignores him, used to the antics.

Tormund chuckles while Jon casually looks for something on TV. Then, he gets up to get them both another beer with dinner, and they settle. It's quiet and easy.

After one more bottle, Jon is starting to feel a bit tipsy.

"This food was good," he smiles.

"Sure. Better with the company."

Jon feels struck by Tormund's outright kindness again, but it makes him smile. "That it is."

"I think I will take it as a challenge, Jon Snow, to get you out of the house more often."

"By all means." Jon just smiles up at him. He feels warm and content.

*

True to his word, Tormund socialises Jon at every available opportunity over the following weeks, be it at the tavern or at one of the many small bars in the neighbouring town, a couple which host live music.

Tormund, Jon is unsurprised to learn, likes to dance. Well - thrash might be more accurate. Jon likes it plenty, as long as he's only expected to watch whilst holding their beers. Though Tormund regularly tries to coax him into the crowd, so far, to no avail.

He does enjoy watching. With Tormund, he feels like he never stops laughing - he’s got more personality in his little finger than Jon feels he’s got in his whole body, and the way he seems to make friends with everyone around him - and occasionally the odd enemy - gives Jon the strangest feeling of satisfaction. Everyone seems to know him, or be related to him. For such sprawling country, the land beyond the Wall has home mostly to small communities, and they usually can’t get through a night out without Tormund gently breaking a couple of hearts.

“I have to look out for my girls,” he tells Jon, when he asks him about it. They’re in the village local, a dingy little tavern with a swinging painted sign outside of a woman holding a sword up to a towering bear. After a few rough days at the farm Tormund is cutting loose, but Jon is designated driver, so he’s made his way through a couple of pints of mild ale in the same time Tormund seems to have drained the entire bar. “Can’t just be bringing anyone home.”

There’s a pretty blonde nearby, eyeing him pointedly, and Tormund looks her up and down before he turns his attention easily back to Jon. “Besides, you’re who I’m here with.”

The words make Jon’s chest ache in a way he can’t explain, and he has to laugh it off; to not mind that he feels _confused_. It’s hardly the first time.

Determinedly, he heads back to the bar to get in another round of drinks - this time, coke for him. The bartender - yet another friend of Tormund's - insists on calling him Southerner. Jon has become accustomed to much worse nicknames over the years, so this one doesn’t chafe nearly as much as it could.

"Thanks, Matt." He hands over the fair.

Matt winks and pours. "Making yourselves at home tonight, aye?"

"Uh, suppose we are."

Jon might have tried to persuade Tormund to call it a night a while back, except for all the friends that keep spotting him; detaining him. Part of being friends with Tormund is simply watching him socialise, but Jon doesn’t mind overmuch: he’s patient. That, and watching Tormund is genuinely wonderful. Jon pretty much always thinks so, but tonight he's especially animated. He seems _pleased_ about something.

Maybe it's just his existence. He's electric, singing and joking and twirling the elderly barmaid when she comes to collect glasses. There's a rogue guitar loitering from the band that was on when they arrived, and he sweeps it up into his lap where he's sat, laughing to a girl nearby, saying something that makes her cuff his ear in mock offence.

Jon sets his drink down carefully, trying not to look overly interested and failing: he's never actually seen Tormund play. He catches his eye, and Tormund raises a teasing eyebrow.

"Shall I play ye a song?"

Jon bites his lip. "Aye, go on then."

The entire bar seems to dim when he starts to play. Everyone they're with is listening, conversations dipping to a murmur, even the fire seems to crackle more softly. Tormund starts to sing softly, voice low and pleasant and unexpectedly mellow.

Though he can't quite qualify why, Jon feels hot and overwhelmed. Tormund just smiles easily when their eyes meet, and looks back down at the fretboard.

It's an old Free Folk song. Jon has heard it on the radio before, as he drives with Tormund. A touch mournful; a song of unrequited love. The woman who smacked Tormund before, still sitting nearby, starts humming a counterpoint and it takes on a haunting quality.

Tormund's expression looks a bit emotional as well. He seems so in the moment, fingers moving swift and easy, never missing a note. Jon licks his lips, watching them strum. Beside him, he hears a soft laugh.

"Need a napkin?" asks Matt.

"I don't - what?"

"Mouth hanging open there, bud."

"It isn't." Jon flushes.

"All right." He walks back to the other end of the bar, leaving Jon vaguely irritated at being interrupted, neck and cheeks stained with a fierce blush. Tormund's playing it for him. He said so. And he's playing it beautifully.

Jon admires him so much. He's talented, and effervescent, and charming, and he's spending all his free time here with _Jon_ of all people. He feels monochrome to Tormund's bold technicolour.

Tormund finishes the verse and goes into the bridge, eyes flicking up to find Jon. He smiles at him, and Jon shifts unconsciously, smiling back. He can feel it bloom deep within. Tormund plays out the last bars of the song with his eyes locked with Jon's.

"What do you think, crow?" he asks softly. It's as if there's no one else in the crowded bar.

"I think you're drunk," Jon deflects, smiling, "and that it's time to go home."

"I think… you may be right." Wobbling a bit as he gets to his feet, Tormund sets the guitar aside and lurches through the surrounding people to get to Jon.

Jon reaches a hand out expectantly. When Tormund takes it, he sees a few of his friends exchange glances behind him. Jon tries to ignore them. "You're meant to give me your truck keys, you giant ginger lush."

"Oh." Tormund laughs. "Thought you were just wooed by my superior display back there." He puts on an exaggerated pout.

When he has the keys in hand, Jon reaches for him again. "All right, all right. Come on then."

This time, their fingers link. Jon feels himself go tight and embarrassed as Tormund turns to wave in response to the scattered goodbyes.

"I've scored!" he announces to the crowd.

They call back a variety of congratulations and jeers. Trying not to be sullen, Jon jerks his hand away, feeling seared by their attention, but Tormund doesn’t let go.

"That's not funny, Tor," he mutters, as they push out into the night air.

"What isn't?"

"Saying you scored."

They're near the truck now, and Tormund stops, still holding onto his hand. "I'm sorry -"

"I just, I know I'm - hanging around, but if you want to get laid you can tell me, I'm not a baby, I don't need you to take me out-"

"That's not why I take you out -"

Jon screws his face up, trying not to scoff.

"And I don't - I'm not trying to get laid."

"So what was all that about?"

To his surprise, Tormund goes red in the cheek. Even so, his voice is brisk. "It wasn't about anything, _my lord_."

It's just wrong, hearing him be like that. Jon huffs softly. "Fine, all right." He makes sure Tormund is in the truck and his belt buckled before starting the engine, all in silence that he hates. Tormund is all sighs and bemusement, which makes it worse.

Jon drives carefully, unused to such a big vehicle. He hates the way he feels, his emotions feel ugly inside him. Tormund is so important to him, and he hates that he feels like they're at odds.

"Tor," he murmurs. His voice sounds so tentative even to himself.

"Jon."

"Don't be mad at me."

A sudden softening of his voice at that. "Never, Jon Snow."

Jon breathes out slowly. "Promise?"

"I promise." Tormund squeezes his arm then. It makes him feel so much better.

"You're a talented musician," he says, somewhat awkwardly.

"Thanks, Jon," Tormund murmurs. He's grinning now though, expression knowing. He can always sense when Jon's about to vibrate out of his skin.

"Don't," Jon grumbles, "I'm trying to be nice."

"You're always nice."

"I'm not."

"I don't believe it."

"It's true," Jon laughs.

"Then you keep it inside your pretty little head, eh?"

"I've just learnt how much effect words have on things. Temper has its time and place." He gives Tormund a smile. "I shouldn't have been like that before, I'm sorry. Not used to teasing being a good thing."

"Aw, crow. I could never mean it any other way."

"I know." Jon reaches over to squeeze his forearm.

They drive the rest of the way in comfortable quiet, and by the time they pull up at the farm, Jon feels a little better, though still with a prickling apprehension he can't name under his skin.

"I'm going to take your truck home, and I'll bring it back in the morning. Is that okay?"

"You don't want to come in?" Tormund asks. "For a coffee?"

The way he says it brings the flush creeping up Jon's neck; he's embarrassed but he doesn't know why. "Think either of us really need caffeine right now?"

"I was more just trying-" Tormund cuts himself off, and shakes his head, almost to himself. "It's all right, Jon."

"What's all right?" Jon frowns.

"You don't have to come in."

"It's just late, I should get back to Ghost..." he bites his lip: it's not a lie, but he still feels reluctant. He looks at Tormund again. He's so close, it seems, close enough that from the light of the kitchen window Jon can see the freckles on the bridge of his nose. Jon breathes in a little raggedly.

"Jon," Tormund says, quietly, reaching up and pushing a stray spiral of dark hair back from his eye. Jon had barely noticed it was there.

"Yeah?" He can't take his eyes from his face.

"I'll play music for you anytime," Tormund murmurs.

He's smiling, and he looks so completely relaxed, but something else, too. Jon can feel his breath on his cheek.

"You're drunk," he tells him softly, "let's get you inside."

He slips out of his seat and around to the passenger door. When he opens it up, he's suddenly lifted off his feet, shouting in surprise as Tormund spins him round. He's laughing in Jon's ear.

"You always take care of me, don't you Jon Snow?"

"I think you've confused us with one another."

"I'm never confused unless I'm drunk!" Tormund protests.

"Well -" Jon laughs. Tormund has put him down now, but there's still no imminent signs of him letting Jon go.

"I mean it, boy," he tells him, "you think this is all for you, but it isn't. You help me, too. You have no clue how much."

"Guess I don't."

Tormund frowns, leaning in close to Jon, weaving slightly. "Jon, it's true." He touches two fingers to the rise of Jon's cheekbone. "I know I have the cousins around, and my girls sometimes but - you're different. You make me feel braver, and better, because you're brave. Even though you're so _little_."

It's said absolutely admiringly, even the last bit. He is so, so drunk. Jon doesn't laugh at him though; just touches his shoulders and squeezes gently.

"You are one of the kindest, most loyal, courageous people I know, Tor," he promises.

An arm wraps around his waist. The hug feels intimate, and cherishing, Tormund's whiskered cheek against his own. "Jon." His sigh ruffles Jon's curls.

"Come on," Jon gets Tormund's keys out, tucking an arm around his back and taking his weight as he angles him toward the door. Tormund moves clumsily. Even so, he cooperates with Jon depositing him onto the sofa and getting him a glass of water. He catches Jon's hand after.

"Jon," he slurs.

"Aye, Tor?"

Silence for a moment, like he wants to say something but doesn't know how. "Take care of my truck," he says finally.

"I'll bring it back tomorrow." Feeling a bit foolish, he brushes his lips against Tormund's temple and then pulls away. His face burns the whole way back out to the car.


	3. Chapter 3

He manages to ignore his more inconvenient emotions for a good couple of weeks after that at least, until one evening after work he's alone with them all, and it feels more looming than it ever did before.

He remembers a voicemail from the other day and dials up Sansa, wondering if a voice from home might clear his head: maybe he won't feel so stranded.

"Jon!" Sansa answers the phone just before it goes over to voicemail.

"Sansa, I got you."

"Gods, sorry, hi. We're having work done on the house before the next charity event and it's chaos."

"The house? Where are you?"

"Outside in the gardens, now. Less hammering."

"Good call." Jon sits down, and 'oof's as Ghost leaps up into his lap.

"How's my darling?" Sansa coos, like she knows.

"He's getting enormous."

"Oh, lovely."

"Sort of - _oof_-" Ghost's elbow finds his ribs as he gets comfortable, and Jon has to acknowledge that his puppy is the size of one of Tormund’s fully grown collies already.

Sansa laughs. "He's on your lap, isn't he? You softie."

"He’s very warm. Starting to get chilly up here now."

"Ah, of course. Winter is coming."

Jon smiles as Ghost starts to lick under his chin.

"Tell me about home, then."

"You first. I've put loads of pictures in the chat, but you've been conspicuously busy, Jon."

Jon sighs. "I've been kept busy."

"By whom?"

"A friend. He thinks I don’t get out enough."

"Ah. The mysterious friend ."

Jon scratches Ghost between the ears and says, "Tormund."

"Tormund. How did you meet Tormund?"

"He's a farmer, he has a stand at the farmers’ market, Sam introduced us. Sort of. Turns out he only lives down the road, he’s my closest neighbour."

"It's nice you've made a friend."

Jon nods idly. "I mean, Sam is great but -"

"Oh, Sam's there too? That's great!"

"I thought I'd said."

"Maybe you told Arya."

"Maybe. Well. He's here. Davos as well."

"But, Tormund is..?"

"Well, different. He didn't know me before."

"Before you got hurt."

"Yeah," Jon murmurs.

Sansa makes a soft, considering noise. "Do we treat you different?"

"Not… all the time. But everyone who knows… but it’s only to be expected."

"Jon..." she sighs softly. "I’m sorry. You've _been_ different. You were always quiet, but now you seem... preoccupied. Sad."

He closes his eyes, stroking Ghost's fur.

"I'm okay," he says quietly. "Just have bad dreams and stuff."

"Jon," she murmurs. "Are you talking to someone?"

"Yeah, I. Yeah. I have a counsellor."

"Good."

He doesn't tell her who it is. It doesn't really matter.

"And you?" He asks softly. "You're okay too, right?"

"I'm fine, Jon. I'm always fine. I’m too busy not to be fine."

"You're tough," he corrects. Maybe the toughest of any of them, because she stayed.

"I have good role models," she says.

"Dad made us all tough," he murmurs.

"I meant you, too."

"Sansa," he says, embarrassed.

"I mean it, Jon. Sometimes I don't even think father was as brave as you."

He sighs. "He was. I’m not brave.”

He doesn’t know why he thinks of Tormund when he says it. Maybe it’s obvious, because there’s a pause, and then -

"Go back to this farmer," Sansa tells him. "How often do you see him?"

"Maybe a few times a week. He helps me out sometimes - and I try to buy him enough beer to pay him back. We go to see bands and stuff. Just. Sometimes. Get dinner, feed chickens."

He hears Sansa hum.

"That's good, Jon. I always worry about you being lonely."

"I was today," Jon admits.

"Why don't you give someone a call? Sam or Tormund?"

He thinks that's what he really wanted to do all along, of course.

"I suppose I feel like I shouldn't bother them - I have to be okay with being on my own at some point, right? I don’t want to use people as a crutch."

"You're allowed to prefer not to be alone, though."

Jon sighs softly. "Does it get easier?" He asks, hearing something upsettingly piteous in his own voice.

She laughs, not meanly, just soft and a bit regretful. "I hope so."

"Me too." He fidgets a bit in his chair. "I wish father were still here."

"Me too," she says. “I wish they all were.”

They're both silent for a moment, and then Sansa clears her throat, voice prim again.

"Bran and Arya are coming home next week, just for a couple of days, nothing stately, just an actual home visit for the end of Summer. You'll come too?"

"If everyone wants me," he murmurs.

"Of course we want you, Jon." That's new, he thinks. When they were kids, Sansa didn't want him. Neither had Robb. She's changed too.

"Okay. I'll come."

"And call a friend later," she repeats.

"I promise." He says goodbye and hangs up, dropping the phone by his leg and stroking Ghost's ears.

He stays like that for a long time, indulging in the uncomplicated affection, freely given any time he might need it. It relaxes him enough to lean back and close his eyes. It's calm for a while, warm, and then the sensation of falling disturbs him a few times, and he realises he’s falling asleep like an old man in a chair with his dog.

He opens his eyes and picks up his phone again; hesitates once before before he texts Tormund.

<<_Hey. Are you busy?_>>

He strokes Ghost's ears again as he listens, still dazed and sleepy. When his phone dings, he taps the notification.

_>>Are you invading my hedgerow again?<<_

_<<Is that a euphemism?>> _he taps back.

_>>Do you want it to be?<<_

Jon laughs, ears turning pink. Tormund would flirt with a park bench after a beer, he must have had a couple.

_<<are you free or not???>>_

_>>I'm just cooking, come on over, and bring the beastie.<<_

Jon doesn't hesitate. He texts Tormund that he won't be long, and Ghost happily bounces at the prospect of a walk, his teenage legs disproportionately long after a growth spurt; ears too.

Jon remembers his phone this time, although he suspects Tormund will insist on driving him home if it gets late. He doesn't run, more speed walks, keeping behind the walls of the fields to stop Ghost from getting near the seldom-used road. He's training him to heel - more useful in the country than a leash, he's sure - and he's doing so well. He's smarter than Jon is already, he's sure.

He watches now as Ghost bounds up and down when he won't move fast enough to let him run. By the time the farm is visible in the distance, he's exerted some of his manic energy; Jon found a stick that bought him some extra time to cover ground while he ran and ran and ran.

He texts Tormund again: _<<Almost there, hope you have a water bowl.>>_

_>>You can have a glass this time, Jon.<<_

As he hops the wall into the farmyard, Ghost scrambling behind, he sees Tormund from the kitchen window.

He's impossible to miss, and it seems so is he: Tormund catches sight of him comes to throw open the door, smiling wide.

"A visit from a crow is bad luck up here, y'know."

"You're the one who invited me."

"I found a loophole."

"Good for you." He watches Ghost wind round his feet, jumping up at Tormund excitedly, nearly to his chest now.

"Down," he tells him in his rumbling voice, gentle but firm. Ghost sits, tail wagging in deference, and he strokes between the great ears. "Good."

Jon just stares for a moment, wanting to remember this moment.

Tormund catches his eye; raises that knowing eyebrow. "You know better than to jump up."

"Yeah I do," Jon laughs helplessly.

Tormund claps his shoulder gently, looking into his face. "You look worried, Jon."

"This is just my face."

"Yes. And it's very fetching. But this is different today."

Jon ruffles his hair. "Bad day. Well, bad night."

“More dreams?”

“Yeah.”

"Would you like a very nice glass of scotch? I can also offer food with no kale."

"I don't mind kale," Jon says.

"No one likes kale, don't lie."

"It's crunchy." Jon tries to hide a smile.

"It tastes like it's been sprayed with aluminium."

Jon bites his lip.

"Yeah, a little. It's good for you," he laughs.

"All my food is good for you," Tormund insists.

"You mostly feed me cake."

"Not tonight," Tormund says. He gestures him into the kitchen, showing Ghost to a water bowl.

"No? What's tonight?"

"It's meal prep night," Tormund winks. "I'll share if you help."

"Sounds like the alternative is 'starve'," Jon chuckles, but he's never left here hungry.

Ignoring him, Tormund tosses him a sack of carrots. "If you can’t wait you can eat while you peel."

Jon can tell he's enjoying this immensely, and he smiles, surprised as ever by how domesticity seems to suit Tormund despite his wildness. He's not easily explained, but it's why Jon likes him so much: he was never good at explaining things anyway, and Tormund certainly doesn't seem to require it.

He passes Jon another load of vegetables: potatoes, squash, turnips. They seem to be making some sort of soup. Jon is happy to get on, both of them chopping and peeling in quiet, but eventually Tormund clears his throat.

"So."

Jon lays down the knife, feeling like his full attention is required suddenly. "So?"

"You gonna tell me what's up?" Tormund asks absently.

"I told you. Bad day."

"I gathered. You could tell me more than that, if you like."

Jon shrugs. "I just. I grew up in Winterfell and I was never alone but I was too, and then I joined the watch and I was never alone but I still felt alone, and now I'm alone all the time and it's... it's good. It's fine. I guess I just. I don't know."

"I don't know either," Tormund points out.

Jon shoots him a sidelong look. "Well you asked."

"I'd just - like to help, if I can," he says it kindly, even though it’s laced with a very Tormund-brand of gentle frustration.

"You do help. That's why I asked if I could come."

He watches the reaction spread across Tormund's face. "Good. Do it anytime."

"You're sure?"

Tormund reaches out and squeezes his shoulder. "I like having you around, Jon."

Despite himself, Jon smiles, heat in the back of his throat making him swallow compulsively.

"Maybe one day, up here, you won't feel so lonely." Tormund continues. He sounds brisk when he says it, but he's gone back to what he was doing, something almost shy about his movements now. Jon's probably imagining it.

He looks at Ghost, sitting hopefully between their feet.

"Poor little prince," he tells him.

"You starving him, Jon?" Tormund teases. "Ghost, does Jon Snow never feed ye'?"

"Hah," Jon makes a face."

Ghost is doing a very convincing job of painting him as a bad dog parent. Wolf parent. Whatever. But Tormund's lips are twitching.

"He's already got you wrapped around his little finger," he observes.

"I know," Jon says, dropping him a bit of carrot peel.

Tormund laughs at him and follows it with a green bean.

"Vegetables are good for him," Jon muses.

"Aye, and us as well."

"I suppose so."

Jon makes sure Tormund looks appropriately scandalized.

"Ungrateful little fuck," is all Tormund says, albeit in good humour.

Jon shoulders up against him affectionately. "You don't mean that."

"I don't know about that, crow."

"Really?" Jon pouts exaggeratedly, and then Tormund presses his thumb against his lip, making him freeze. For a moment, they’re both still, but Tormund just flicks his nose. Jon wrinkles it and flicks a carrot peel back at him. "Ouch!"

He can't explain his sudden embarrassment, but he has to go back to the vegetables for a minute, heart going hard. Ghost leans on his leg, and it helps a little.

"All right, spooks," he whispers, reaching down to scratch his ears, smiling when he makes a pleased little yip.

Beside him, he can feel Tormund is watching him closely. Jon tries not to blush any more than usual. He doesn't like attention, never has.

"What?" He mutters.

"Spoiling the baby, I see."

"Is loving him spoiling him?"

"Definitely not," Tormund smiles. He squeezes Jon's shoulder again. "Defensive tonight. Let me get you a beer."

"Thanks," Jon says, looking at his feet, caught between grateful and annoyed at Tormund not skirting around his mood like an elephant in the room. He murmurs his thanks when Tormund brings him a bottle, setting his knife aside and going to sit at the kitchen table, moving a few paperbacks and a pamphlet on chicken feed.

Tormund throws the veggies in the pot on the stove and gives Ghost a squeaky toy from one of his dogs' beds.

"Now, we can both sit."

Jon smiles as he comes to sit by him, and taps the pamphlet. "Thinking about getting a few ladies for your back garden?"

"No, this is for you, actually."

"Me?"

"Yeah, if you fancy it."

Jon chews his lip, surprised, until Tormund grins at him. "I already have chickens."

"I know!"

"So I could fix your fence, build you a hen house, you could have a couple hens."

Jon thinks about it.

"Are you trying to give me new hobbies?"

"Aye, are you thinking about it?"

"Yes, but - well, I don't know anything about chickens."

"They'll teach you," Tormund chuckles. "But if you want, you can take care of mine for a bit."

"So what, I start coming over twice a day?"

"Sure, or you can stay."

"Stay?" Jon stutters a little.

Tormund raises an eyebrow. "You know. Like a sleepover."

"Um?" Jon is turning red again.

Tormund frowns at him, visibly perplexed. "You don't want to be alone right now. I have room. And chickens."

"I..." Jon bites his lip. "What about Ghost?"

"What about him, lad? He'll be here too. Your tiny little lady friend can stop coming to let him out for a few days, eh?"

Jon nods. This all feels - purposeful. Part of him is paranoid and defensive - is he really that pathetic? Still, he won't say no. In fact, his hesitance is just how much he wants to. Tormund never signed up to be his minder.

"I don't need you to look after me, Tor," he says quietly, and the expression on Tormund’s wind-chafed face surprises him, uncommonly serious and genuine.

"What if I just want you here?"

"Why would you just want me here?"

"Because I like having you around." He nudges Jon's beer hand until he takes another sip. "Come on, little crow. Get drunk with me. Relax a little. Feed the chickens tomorrow. You can think about it."

After all that, there's nothing to say but yes. Jon warily nods, and Tormund breaks into a smile.

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Why not."

"You could sound a little more enthusiastic."

"I don't want you to think I'm weird."

"I know you're weird. That's why I like you." His fingers touch Jon's wrist again, right on the bone.

"I'm not," Jon says helplessly, and Tormund laughs.

"Of course you are. You died, and voluntarily moved North of the Wall. And you're a nobleman's son who fought for Northerner's freedom, rather than Southerner's comfort. Face it, Jon Snow. You're weird."

"In that case, maybe weird is good," Jon offers.

"Which brings us back to my point," Tormund whispers.

Jon takes a quick sip of beer to wet a suddenly-dry mouth. He's not sure why he feels more disappointed than relieved when Tormund pulls away to go to the stove.

"Almost time to eat," he declares.

Jon looks around for Ghost distractedly, missing his comforting warmth against him. "Smells good."

He sees a gangly furry body curled on a dog bed in the corner, asleep, toy still in his mouth. Jon’s fondness is only slightly offset by his feeling of desertion - he knows if he calls, Ghost will come instantly.

But then Tormund sets a bowl down in front of him, and he can't bring himself to wake him. He's starving and the soup smells fantastic, and Tormund is beside him once more, his warmth emanating like he were a star to Jon’s dark little sky. It's a cluttered table, and their hands bump every now and again. Jon can’t quite figure why he’s so fractious tonight.

"Thank you for dinner," he says eventually.

"My pleasure."

He passes Jon another roll and the butter, and watches him while he breaks it open. It feels distinctly like he's about to say something. Jon waits for it.

"You seen that therapist of yours recently?" Tormund asks finally.

"We have calls every week or two," Jon says.

"And does it help?"

"Less than it should," Jon sighs.

"And working - at the Wall. It doesn't remind you of before? Being around it all the time?"

"It does," Jon murmurs.

"Is that why you're avoiding it?"

Jon takes a breath. "I'm not-" But he is. A little.

Tormund gives him a cowing look.

"Is this a tough love talk now?" Jon jokes weakly.

"It's a talk about how Samwell says he hasn't heard from you for a week, and how you seem to be spending as little time at work as possible."

"He's busy," Jon mumbles, feeling like he’s in trouble.

"No," Tormund says sharply, "that's bullshit."

Jon looks up in shock, but Tormund raises a hand to calm him. "You need to talk to them. You need more time. I haven't known you ten minutes and I know that.” He lets the hand cover one of Jon's. "And the only reason they don't know that is because you're hiding it from them."

Jon startles at the touch, but he's breathless for another reason.

"I'm a soldier," he says weakly, "I'm meant to be fucking - brave."

"You are."

"I'm not," Jon says, faintly, "I'm scared. I’ve been scared ever since..."

Tormund's expression is gentle, understanding, which somehow makes it worse.

"That doesn't mean you're not brave. I shouldn't have to tell you that, Jon Snow."

Jon shakes his head quickly. "I'm fine. I'm all right. I'm just tired."

"Then stay here. Sleep, let me feed you." When Jon hesitates, he adds, "and talk to your lord commander, aye?"

Jon knows an order when he hears it.

"Okay," he whispers, throat tight. Somewhat perversely, he immediately feels better now that he’s been called out.

Tormund nods approvingly. "Good lad."

Jon sighs, but it's relieved. He's comfortable here. This is a comfortable house. Tormund is a comfortable person. He's not sure if he can remember the last time he _felt _this comfortable. This is his best chance.

"Tell me something," he asks Tormund, "something you want me to know."

"I'm trying to tell you about chickens," Tormund jokes.

Jon shrugs, confidence dented by having the game knocked back. "Okay." He sees Tormund's expression falter. "What?"

"I'm sorry, I don't do serious well."

"I'm not asking for serious."

"Good, thank the gods."

"You did okay just before," Jon comments. He offers a smile with it.

"Good at stern," Tormund shrugs.

"Is it a big guy thing?"

"Might be. I bet you're all right at stern and all."

"Me?" Jon laughs.

"Yes, you. Heard plenty about you, none of it that you're meek and mild. Even if you are small."

"Who have you been talking to, Tor?"

"Mostly just Samwell. He talks about you a lot, ye know. If I didn't know better... well. I do."

Jon frowns at him, confused. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, if he weren't married I'd think he was sweet on you, Southerner."

Jon chokes a bit on his beer, but he's laughing. "Don't be daft."

"Oh, you think I'm daft?" Tormund raises a pale brow.

Jon's self-conscious laughter fades. "No, but I don't think Sam - god, it's not like that. We're friends."

"No, no, I got that," Tormund says quickly.

Jon frowns faintly. He's not even sure why Tormund would suggest it. "Trust me," he says. "It's not like that with him, or anyone."

"Why not?" Something guarded comes into Tormund's expression.

"I'm just." Jon shrugs. "A disaster."

"Oh. Well - yeah, maybe that’s true." He smiles to soften it.

"It's a sure thing," Jon promises. "I don't mind admitting it."

He bites his lip, still lingering on why Tormund had looked so tense for a second there - why he's even brought it up in the first place. He supposes he'd be curious too; lots of talk about that kind of thing in the Watch - not that Jon minds what anyone is getting up to in their free time. The True North isn't the kind of place where things like that seem to matter, either.

At that thought, Jon looks at Tormund again. He's picking idly at his beer label.

"Tor?" Jon asks, softly.

A soft noise. "Aye?"

"You looked... Do you want to tell _me_ what's wrong?"

"Nothing at all," Tormund says. "I'm just glad - that you want to be around."

"Of course I want to be around."

"Well, maybe you think I'm just a big, loud busybody."

Jon can't believe Tormund is self conscious, it doesn't seem like him to give a fuck what Jon thinks of him as a person. This is something else.

This time, he’s the one who touches Tormund’s hand, holding his gaze when he glances at Jon and sighs.

"I'm not. I am loud. And big. But I'm not a busybody."

"I know you're not. What's this about-?" Why does he feel like he failed some kind of test when Tormund asked about Sam? "Sam wasn't giving you a hard time about me, was he?"

A derisive noise at that. "Oh, yeah. Had me quivering he did, like a dog."

"Talk about a busybody."

"He wasn't giving me a hard time, don't worry."

Jon is still confused, but he doesn't want to upset Tormund.

"Okay," he shrugs, a little offended that he’s had his insecurities dragged over hot coals during the course of this meal but Tormund isn’t up for the same. He just goes back to his beer, sighing quietly. A pawing at his knee makes him look down, and Ghost is there, begging to come up. With a smile, he scoots his chair back, and Ghost neatly leaps up, settling into his lap and licking at his hands, all gangly limbs and warmth.

Tormund reaches out and strokes him gently.

"Won't fit soon," he says.

"I'll find a way."

"Maybe you can sit in his lap," Tormund chuckles.

"I think I'll be able to ride him into battle to be honest."

"Perhaps, perhaps."

Tormund gets to to wash the dishes despite Jon's protests he can do it.

"It's just an extra plate and bowl, crow. Sit with your pup."

Jon sighs and Ghost sits up in his lap to sniff hopefully at the table top.

"Don't," Jon tells him, softly but firmly. Ghost looks back and licks his face instead.

"Well," Tormund laughs, "that's better."

Jon shakes his head, laughing. "Trust me, it doesn't smell better."

"I will, at that." Grinning, Tormund goes back to the sink.

They eventually migrate to the living room, and Tormund puts on the stereo in the corner and opens a bottle of vodka from the freezer, pouring out two generous measures and handing one to Jon.

The burn feels good, but he paces himself. He hasn't been drinking much recently - Jaime advised against it as a habit, and it’s probably a wise thing to say, but Jon isn't alone right now so it's probably okay.

He smiles as Tormund slumps down beside him with his own drink, stretching out long and lean, his toe poking out of a hole in his worn sock. Even that has freckles, Jon notes, smiling at the thought.

Letting out a big breath, Tormund lets their shoulders press, and Jon thinks that's probably okay too.

"Thanks for dinner," Jon says helplessly, "and everything."

"Any time, little one." Tormund's voice is warm.

Jon leans harder, smiling when Tormund throws an arm around him with one confident movement. Jon's too busy exhaling in relief to give it much more thought, and so he just sips his drink again as Tormund pats his hair absently. He seems fascinated by the curls, even though he has plenty of his own.

"Is dark hair really that unusual? I don't see you petting Sam like this at the market," Jon chuckles.

"He wouldn't hold still for that," Tormund says idly.

That makes Jon laugh hard. "What, like he doesn't freeze in fear every time he sees you?"

"He doesn't. Much."

"I don't believe it," Jon chuckles.

Tormund shrugs. "All right, his just isn't as pretty as yours."

Jon laughs again, more lazily. "Well, just don't clip off any curls while I sleep, yeah?"

"Not even a bit to keep under my pillow?"

"Gross," Jon tells him with amusement. "Ghost sheds enough for both of us, honestly. Take his instead."

"Not quite the same."

"Yeah, he's cuter."

"He's a dog," Tormund cracks up.

"Shh, don't tell him."

"Sorry, sorry."

His fingers keep working gently through Jon's curls. It makes him feel... like he's slowly baking inside. Not uncomfortable, but bumping up against it. It occurs to him that this is too intimate.

Tormund started it, his mind yelps internally even as his muscles all tense at once. Maybe he feels it, because he lifts his arm; reaches out to refill his glass.

"More, Jon?"

"Sure," Jon tips his last mouthful back and leans forward to hold it up, humming as Tormund tips the bottle over his glass too.

"Thanks." He tips it back. Just another sip, just to keep his hands busy.

Him and Tormund stay leant forward on the couch, elbows touching. Jon suddenly feels like something is missing.

The feeling just creeps up on him. He looks at Tormund again; presses their arms together instead.

Seemingly unsurprised, Tormund looks at him, raising his eyebrows, so casual. Completely calm. Jon raises his back, offering a smile. He likes these moments best, he thinks, when they just sit and grin at one another, no words necessary.

"I think you're going to like chickens," Tormund mumbles eventually, "and Ghost is still young enough he won't try eat them."

"And when he gets older?"

"He'll be socialised with them by then."

"Or he'll eat one whole."

Tormund cackles at that, loud enough both Jon and Ghost both jump.

“You wouldn’t do that, would you spooks?” Tormund pats his lap, and Ghost excitedly leaps up onto him, long tail whapping him and Jon in turn. He pats him, pushing his face into Ghost’s chest, laughing when he excitedly starts to groom his ears and hair.

Grin hurting his face with the laughter behind it, Jon sits back and watches them, sipping his drink and letting the tension dissipate again.

"Thanks for letting me stay," he whispers.

Face still buried in Ghost’s fur, Tormund’s voice is muffled. "Any time." Then, he reaches out and squeezes Jon's knee, extracting his face. "Any time."

Jon still freezes whenever he's surprised with touch, caught halfway between leaning in and backing away, and he does it now with less subtlety than usual, horrified when Tormund lifts his hand away.

"I'm sorry."

"No!" he blurts. "It's okay."

"You sure?"

"I'm just - I'm me, Tor."

"Aye, yeah, nervous." Nervous covers it well enough.

Tormund just winks and scruffs Ghost's neck as he takes his next drink. The stereo clicks over to the next album in the background, something rhythmic, relatively heavy but not exactly metal. The room glows with the fire lit, flickering on the photos on mantle - Tormund with two young girls, one on each shoulder, his expression glowing with happiness.

Jon takes another long drink with a sigh. He's starting to tick over into relaxation, maybe tipsiness.

"I think I'm tired," he whispers.

"I have beds. Let me show you upstairs quick."

Jon follows him, Ghost bouncing behind. There's a short hall at the top of the stairs and Tormund leads him to the end of it, into one of the spare rooms, made up and cosy.

"The bath is the next door on the left," Tormund tells him. "Is it all right?"

"Perfect," Jon says quickly, genuinely. There’s plaid blankets on the bed, a couple more guitars on the wall, and another few full bookcases crammed into the space. Very Tormund.

"Good," Tormund replies. "I'll wake you in the morning if you're not up," he warns playfully.

"I'll try my best."

Tormund pats his shoulder gently, expression soft on his distinctive features. "Sleep well, little crow. I’m just down the way if you need anything."

"Thanks… you too," Jon says softly to his retreating back. Blushing at the words, he settles down with Ghost, listening to the faint noises of the sleeping farm; Tormund across the hall. It's so easy to fall asleep here; even Ghost seems to settle without his usual levels of puppy procrastination. He's not used to sleeping in bed with him, but Jon thinks they could both get used to it all too easily.

*

He thinks they’re used to it already the next morning, Ghost still sound asleep even when he stirs, curled into the warmth of his body. Jon sees the drawback immediately: he does not want to move. But he remembers Tormund’s playful threat to come in if he’s not up. He can hear him moving, the sounds of running water and teeth being brushed.

With a sigh, Jon kisses Ghost's head and pushes himself to a sitting position. It occurs to him with a startling clarity that he didn’t dream.

He’s up, and pulling on his t-shirt when Tormund knocks on the door. Ghost yips promptly, startled awake, and Jon can’t help laughing as he opens the door.

"Hi-" Jon's jeans are still on the floor and it's too late to dive for them without it looking demented. He wasn't thinking of it until this second, and he’s not sure it precisely matters, but it feels - casual.

Tormund looks him over and Jon knows his face must be showing some of his frantic backing and forthing.

"Coffee downstairs," he murmurs. "Then feeding, then breakfast." The way he says it, Jon isn’t sure who is getting the feed and who is getting the breakfast.

"Yeah, thanks," Jon says. When Tormund lingers, he relaxes a bit. "Morning, by the way?"

"Morning," Tormund grins. "Did you sleep okay?"

"Sound, thanks, and you?"

"As ever," Tormund says cheerfully. "If you're going to be around the farm, you might want to shower later - you want to borrow some clothes? Your fancy lord jeans might get shit on them."

"What's wrong with my jeans?" Jon asks, puzzled.

"They're nice," Tormund shrugs.

"They'll wash."

"Trust me, crow," Tormund laughs, "let me lend you something."

He strides off to his room, leaving Jon hovering in the doorway in his tee shirt and boxer briefs.

Part of Jon wonders if this is to embarrass him: he's going to swim in whatever it is, and in the meantime, he's standing in his underpants.

He goes back into the room to retrieve his phone, checking in on the group chat. He only gets a couple of messages down before a pair of jeans and a plaid shirt whap him in the back of the head and he laughs helplessly. When he turns, Tormund catches his eye and winks before he closes the door over again. Shaking his head, Jon obediently tugs them on.

The jeans can't be Tormund's, because they almost fit, but the shirt is hilarious. Jon has to roll the sleeves up his forearms, where they try valiantly to slide down, and the shirt is so big it swishes around the top of his thighs as he walks.

When he heads downstairs, Ghost bouncing behind him, Tormund is cooking eggs, overall straps undone and hanging against the backs of his legs, his t-shirt showing off the blue tattoos on his arms.

Jon’s eyes linger on them as he sits himself down, and Tormund gives him a smile; gestures to a mug of coffee.

"Help yourself, lad. I’ve already got one."

Jon does so gratefully: he has the faint fuzz of a hangover behind his eyes, and the coffee and food both smell like a cure. Tormund comes to dish him up bacon, eggs, toast, and Jon has his fork in it before it can even finish putting it down.

"Eat quick," he says, despite it still being basically dark out. "The beasties are hungry too."

Jon does as he's told, and with Tormund sat beside him, they

"Oh - do you have any formula I can give Ghost?"

"Probably. Let's check when we get out to the barn." Tormund glances down at where Ghost is lay chewing a toy. "You've not tried him on solid stuff yet?"

"I have, but I still give him formula first thing."

"Well, it isn't hurting." Tormund tweaks an ear gently, and Ghost wags his tail happily. "That's right, spooks."

Jon beams softly, watching.

"He'll be a big help, I'm sure."

"He will collect any rogue shoes," Jon reassures Tormund, making him laugh.

“Thank the gods. Been plagued with shoes this year.”

They grin at one another, and then Tormund nods at the door. "Let's go?"

Shoving a last bit of bacon in his mouth, Jon swigs coffee as he stands up.

"Let's go," he affirms.

Tormund opens the door for him into the farmyard, and the farm dogs run to greet him and Ghost, who dwarfs them all despite being the youngest. It's all a bit of a blur, after that. Jon thought being in the army was hard work, but feeding livestock is no joke.

Especially with Tormund constantly laughing at him, albeit it without malice - except perhaps when he throws a bail of hay at Jon and it knocks him off his feet. Luckily, he lands in more hay.

By midday, Jon is already physically hurting. They’re grubbing in the vegetable patches, checking for holes where rabbits might have been at the cabbages. Jon’s hands are sore from lifting and shovelling.

"Wow," he wheezes to Tormund, who nods back, reassuringly out of puff himself.

Jon had called in to the base this morning and taken the day off. Now he's wondering if he's up for more of this, his chest aching and fatigue feeling closer than it normally might. He forgets he’s still not entirely healed.

Now, Tormund watches him from the other end of the allotment, expression taking on that keen concern he'd seen last night.

"Let's take a break."

"I don't want to take you away from it."

"Don't worry, the others will be here soon. I do earlies, they do lates."

Jon nods. "Okay." He still stands and watches the chickens scratch around in their yard when he passes.

Tormund stops beside him, grinning. "They're cute little fuckers."

"Damn it, Tor, they are." Jon means it. There's something peaceful about being out here. He feels remarkably content.

When Tormund hands him a bottle of water, and that helps too. They pass it back and forth for a couple of minutes, just catching their breath.

Nearby, Ghost has flopped in the shade in Tormund's side yard, the sun climbing up beyond the mountains, giving off considerable heat despite the wind. Jon can relate: he has tied his hair back, shirt mostly undone by now, hair and chest damp with sweat. He sees why Tormund told him not to shower.

Out of the corner of his eye, he becomes aware of Tormund looking at his chest; the riddle of angry red scars there. After a pause, Jon turns and unbuttons the last two buttons, letting him look: he thinks he needs to.

Just a soft tut in reaction. Tormund's eyes travel back up to his face, mouth crooking as he reaches out to tug at Jon's stubby ponytail.

"Get off," Jon chuckles, elbowing him away gently.

Tormund goes easily, walking over to toss the empty bottle in a bin, whistling tunelessly under his breath. He's stripped down himself, sleeves capped and his arms bared.

Allowing himself to study him, Jon assesses. He's built like a prizefighter, no vanity muscles but thickness in his chest and core, everywhere naturally big, knuckles scarred.

"Did you always do this?" Jon asks, softly.

"Harass Southerners?" Tor says amiably.

"Yeah. And run the farm."

"Not always. For the past number of years, aye."

"What did you do before?"

"A bouncer, a boxer. A brute in general."

It's an incongruous glimpse into his old life. He seems so gentle now, but Jon thinks he knew Tormund had the capacity for violence. Maybe he has the capacity for both. People can have layers, he reminds himself.

"What happened?"

"The old folks needed me. So I calmed down and starting shearing sheep and driving a tractor instead."

"I think I'm going the opposite way," Jon admits, laughing, "I always did what I was told, now I'm skipping work with you instead."

Tormund laughs appreciatively. "Happy to be a bad influence. Want me to be even more of one?"

"Sure?" Jon says warily.

"That doesn't sound very sure."

Jon gives him a glare. Tormund shrugs, and he folds. "Fine, lay it on me."

"How do you feel about quads?"

"The muscle group?"

"The four wheeled thing with an engine and handle bars."

"Oh," Jon laughs, feeling ridiculous. "I feel okay about that."

"Good. Let's be reckless after lunch."

"Okay," Jon smiles.

Tormund puts an arm around him as he wanders closer, and squeezes him tight.

Jon walks home before dinner to retrieve his car and a bag of clothes. As he walks, one of Tormund’s borrowed sweatshirts drowning him, he dials Jaime Lannister on the phone.

"Jaime," he says abruptly when the line connects, "you said once you could recommend me for an extended leave?"

There's a faint, surprised pause, before Jaime finds his silver tongue again. "Well, yes, of course. This is a bit of a turnaround though, Snow - you've caught me between sessions, got time to talk me through what's going on?"

Despite his reluctance, Jon knows he owes Jaime that at least.

"I suppose I realised I'm unhappy," he says, quietly.

"Did you?" Jaime’s voice is surprisingly gentle. "You were very insistent that you were fine."

Jon is silent for several seconds, and then he swallows. "I'm not."

"If I could ask - what brought about the change in heart?"

Jon thinks about it, brow creasing. "A friend sat me down and talked very plainly to me, I suppose."

"A friend," Jaime says, almost sceptically.

"Well, yeah."

"That's good progress, Snow. Very good." He sounds pleased, but Jon still sighs.

"It doesn't feel like progress. Not sure sitting at home will help but carrying on isn't helping, either."

"It's worth a try. As long as you keep your check-ins with me, I won't worry overmuch." He continues after a brief pause. "I think this is a good call, Jon. Are you going to be with people?"

"My uh. My neighbor could use a hand on his farm for a bit."

"Don't push yourself physically, right?"

"Yeah, I know."

"And you're going to set up a meeting with your CO? I'll send my recommendation when you've had a chance to talk to them."

Jon sighs. "Yeah, I'll do it tomorrow."

"Great. This is good, Snow," Jaime assures him quickly, "this is progress. Maybe you're not a slave to duty after all."

His voice is softly ironic. Jon thinks he's not just talking about him. A smile starts to touch the corners of his mouth.

"Maybe not."

"It's good," Jaime reiterates.

"Yeah? Well. Good. I'll set it up. Thank you." He signs off with Jaime and takes a deep breath. The next number he calls is Davos’, and he has a similar, but much shorter conversation: he has a feeling the old Knight has been expecting this, though he seems entirely supportive of the idea.

“You’ve done plenty, Jon. It’s time to rest,” he tells him.

Feeling guilty nonetheless, Jon sighs heavily when he hangs up, debating internally. He wants to be back at the farm already, with Tormund, and Ghost, and the odd little collection of chickens.

So that's what he does; as soon as he’s back at his place, he loads his things and Ghost's into the car, and goes back. He’s thinking he’ll be headed to Winterfell in a few days, and it makes more sense to set off straight from Tormund’s.

When he pulls up, he can see that Tormund is making dinner, their work done for the day, the blue and yellow of early evening starting to touch the sky. Jon feels a spark of gratitude at the sight of him through the warmly lit kitchen window, glowing in the gathering dark. It's homey, in a way that Jon isn't sure he's ever had.

He hesitates by the car when he gets out, trying to analyse his feelings, not sure how to do it. He tries to look at it how one of his sisters might, objectively: _you’re spending a lot of time with this new friend,_ Sansa had said, in one of their recent phonecalls. Jon hadn’t known what to say, other than, “I just feel better around him.”

That baffles him, too. He's not sure what has him frozen by his car when he yearns to go inside. His dog is inside. His friend is inside. Easy, familiar now. No more lingering uncertainty: they’ve drank together, cooked together, talked about things they’d rather not.

Letting himself smile at the thought, Jon forces his feet to move. He opens the mudroom door, announcing himself with a soft greeting as he kicks off his boots.

"In here," Tormund calls.

Jon goes into the kitchen, greeting Ghost's excited howling with laughter. "I've only been gone an hour!"

He scoops him up off the floor anyway, sputtering when he rolls and flails excitedly in his arms, only calming when he cradles him against his chest and shushes softly.

"What a baby," Tormund laughs from the stove.

"He is," Jon chuckles, "already so spoilt."

"Well, whose fault is that?"

"Mine," Jon says, somewhat pleased.

"Damn right." Tormund chuckles. "How'd it go at home?"

The way he's looking at Jon feels so warm; a set up from some kind of familial archetype Jon doesn't want to examine too closely.

"Yeah. It was - it was okay."

"Good. You weren't gone too long, but dinner's almost ready."

"Could get used to this," Jon grins, cheeks heating a bit.

"Yes, regular meals, it's quite a concept," Tormund teases.

"I eat regular meals!"

"Oh, so it's my apron then."

Jon laughs. "The 'kiss the cook' is a nice touch."

"Hope springs eternal," Tormund shrugs amiably. "Usually it works on the aunts and little cousins at least."

"Just what you always wanted."

"I'll take what I can get," Tormund says, voice quiet. "Enjoy the peace tonight, anyway. Some of them will probably descend tomorrow."

Jon doesn't like the way he says that. He puts Ghost down and nudges him companionably.

"Hey, it's okay. I'm glad to be back, you know?"

"Good to know." He says it with a scoff but Jon doesn't buy it. Something is roiling in the back of his mind, for now easy enough to ignore, gone entirely when Tormund passes him a bag of potatoes.

"Time to sing for your supper."

"What do you want me to sing?" Jon moves to wash his hands.

"The potato peeling song."

"Not sure I know that one," Jon chuckles, taking the knife Tormund offers him, starting to peel.

"Oh, just make it up as you go along."

Jon just blushes and continues his work, and Tormund flicks on a kitchen radio as he does, going back to the stove and singing quietly along with the tune. They work steadily, shoulders nearly touching, and eventually Jon relaxes.

Dinner is good, the food helped along by strong beer Tormund traded some cider apples for at the market. It's easy and comfortable, though Jon does nearly choke to death while Tormund tells him a story about getting his foot stuck down a toilet in a bar. Tormund smacks him on the back until he nearly headbutts his plate, and that makes him laugh harder.

"No more bar stories for you," Tormund shakes his head.

"Don't," Jon croaks, taming another drink. "And don't tell me why you had your foot on the toilet, either."

"I was -" Tormund starts to snigger at the thought. "It was - I wasn't in there alone, and a bouncer came in to check under the stall doors."

"I told you not to tell me!"

"I know, but I knew that meant you wanted me to tell you."

Jon laughs. "Did it?"

"Absolutely."

Jon is thinking about Tormund crouching on a toilet seat, and he is pretty glad for that image. "What, uh. Happened to the person with you?"

"He stood in front of me and pretended he was taking a leak. We climbed out the window." Tormund grins.

"You're lucky there was one."

"Yes, we were," Tormund muses.

"What, uh. What were you _doing_ to piss off the bouncer, anyway?" Jon asks, and then feels stupid when the answer starts to dawn on him before he can cut himself off.

"Fucking," Tormund says, in a tone that suggests Jon is being incredibly dense.

He blinks a couple of times, mouth slightly open, and then laughs again. "Oh. Well. Yes, I can see that being, uh. Against the rules."

"Damn right."

Jon smiles at his plate, trying to weigh the stiffness in his movements now; how his hands feel heavy and clumsy. He can't quite meet Tormund's eyes, but he seems to be waiting for Jon to gather his thoughts. Easier said than done; his friend, who he knows has two little girls, and who apparently likes to - well, Jon isn't stupid, and he's not going to be a jerk. He’s just surprised, he thinks.

"Such a troublemaker," he teases softly.

Tormund grins at him. "Who doesn't like trouble?" The grin goes crooked. "I guess I answered my own question, didn't I? Jon Snow doesn't like trouble."

“That’s not true, I just-” Jon thinks, sputtering a bit to prove he’s not _judging_ Tormund. "I'm always the one that gets punished," he admits, "that's what you get for being the bastard."

Tormund's expression goes soft at that, which wasn’t the intention either.

"You'll make me cry," he teases, but he squeezes Jon's shoulder.

"I'll do the dishes as punishment," Jon replies.

"I'm not punishing you, you can get us another beer."

"I can," Jon says, ducking his head a little.

Tormund takes their plates to the sink.

Dutifully, Jon gets them more beers, and he keeps getting them more beers even as they both move to the living room. Tormund puts on music again, and they subside onto the couch, Ghost claiming the rug by the hearth.

Jon watches Tormund get up to stoke the fire after a while and is struck again by the feeling of not wanting him to move away. When he returns, Jon leans into him to anchor him, trying not to put too much thought into the fact.

"All right?" Tormund asks, warmth in his voice.

"Yeah, great." He plucks at a loose thread on Tormund's cuff. He's thinking about Tormund's story about the bar again, without realising it. He must be drunk, to be thinking about a friend that way. Picturing it. He can't stop looking at him.

"Jon?" Tormund tilts his head. "I know I'm pretty but there's no need to stare."

"Sure there is. Why not?"

A shrugging laugh at that. "All right, can't argue with that."

"You don't argue anyway. Just say nice things. Always doing that."

"I can't remember saying anything nice to you."

"You mean them as nice. I know you do."

"I do," Tormund says quietly.

Jon smiles. "See?"

"Well, I like you. And." Tormund frowns like he's trying to order his thoughts. "I don't get the impression that many people say nice things to you."

"More lately. Since I died."

"That scar," Tormund hesitates. "I didn't expect it to be so bad. I don't know why. I believed you, but I didn't understand."

Jon touches his own chest automatically, self conscious, but Tormund puts his hand over his gently. "I'm glad you came here, Jon. I'm glad you lived."

"Me too," Jon whispers, throat tight. Slowly, he layers his other hand over Tormund’s, tracing over the bones of his fingers. His face is warm, and when Tormund pulls away and stands, he nearly vocally protests. He watches him go to retrieve the vodka from the mantel; two glasses.

"Jon?" he offers one out.

"Thanks." He reaches out to accept it. He already feels pleasantly warm and light.

"The girls might be coming tomorrow," Tormund announces then, absently, "my brother says he can pick them up on his way back from Hardhome. I haven't seen them for a while, but I've heard the oldest shaved her head so - that'll be interesting."

It's almost too much to contemplate. Jon thinks he feels disappointment butt up against his interest to meet the girls, something sour and unbecoming.

"So everyone is coming, huh?"

Tormund reaches idly for a stray curl. "You're already here."

"I'm not everyone," Jon laughs.

"Yeah, I'm the happiest about you."

"Don't say that, your children are coming." Jon realises then that he feels a little jealous: Tormund’s girls, the centre of his world. His family is more important than Jon.

"I have missed them very much," Tormund muses, sounding wryly amused as ever, "but I doubt they'll have missed me."

"I'm sure you're wrong."

"Nah, it's teenagers. They'll like me again in about five years. Currently I'm a farmer who has an old TV, no internet, and no chat."

Jon snorts, leaning into his side. "Well, this is true."

"You seem to like me plenty without a fancy TV."

"I'm not a teenager." Jon looks up at him.

"Thank god for that. People might talk." He strokes through a few more curls.

"I didn't realise you-" Jon stops, biting his lip, not sure whether to finish his sentence.

"Realize I?" He's closer now. He looks like he's closer. Jon feels like he's closer.

"I was about to say something stupid, I'm sorry."

"Drinking more should help that," Tormund teases.

Jon drinks agreeably, watching Tormund as he does the same. They hold one another’s gaze even as they drink.

"Can I ask something?"

"Of course," Jon says absently, eyes blinking slowly.

"Do you remember dying?"

"Only that it hurt," Jon murmurs. He sighs. "And that it was like being nothing. Nowhere.” The memory makes him shudder. "Not even in a restful way. Why do you ask?"

"I suppose I want to know if you're really glad you're still here. You always look so uncertain."

"I'm trying to be," Jon tells him softly. "It's getting easier."

That makes a terrible, worried weight settle on Tormund's expression.

"Jon," he says helplessly. Pleadingly.

"I'm sorry, I'm - I'm drunk," Jon says quickly, "I didn't mean to --" Tormund pulls him in, with a handful of curls and a quiet whine. "I'm okay," Jon says weakly, "being here, being around you, it's the best I've felt in - _years_. Tormund…”

He studies the shining eyes, the weatherbeaten skin of his cheeks, feeling like he's taking him in in great gulps like air. Tormund’s fingers work through his hair again gently.

"Jon..."

"Tor?"

Heaving a sigh, Tormund ruffles his hair gently.

"I'm just really glad you smashed up all those fucking apples."

"They were _bruised_, Tormund."

"I know, but you dived down on your hands and knees like I was a fucking king."

"You looked like one," Jon mumbles.

That makes Tormund laugh. "What, in my overalls?"

"Always." He blushes hard as soon as he says it. "Shit."

A surprised burst of laughter escapes Tormund, and he traces over the blush with a thumb.

"I never knew you cared," he chuckles.

"Didn't - didn't you?"

Tormund gives him a look. "You're a hard one to read, boy. The beauty of everyone thinking you're harmless, isn't it?"

"I am harmless," Jon laughs.

"Not in my experience."

"Tormund," Jon chides him, pushing himself up so they're nose to nose.

"What, Jon? What do you want me to know?"

It's hard to focus, especially this close, but Jon tries. "I care."

"I know you care."

"No, I -" with a frustrated breath, Jon cuts himself off, leaning in to kiss him instead, thrown into uncertainty for one horrible moment when he feels Tormund stiffen, and then relax. All at once, his great warm hands come up to cup Jon’s face, and Jon grasps at his shoulders in turn, fumbling and hapless. He’s needy and overwhelmed, gasping into the kiss when one of Tormund’s hands smoothes down his back and squeezes him closer.

Shivering, Jon pulls away just for a breath, but Tormund pulls him back with a soft murmur of his name. It’s nearly pleading. Their lips meet again and this time they hold, Jon feeling hot all over, especially with Tormund dragging him gently closer. He lets himself be guided, _pressed_, until the kiss grows in fervour.

Tormund's hair is soft under his fingers, tiny braids like silken cords just hidden amongst the curls. Jon's fingers follow them almost mindlessly as he opens his mouth for the gentle sweep of Tormund's tongue. Their breath comes short, gasped in between long kisses, and Jon presses closer at gentle urging; kneels clumsily over one of Tormund's thighs, where he perches for a moment until Tormund hauls him bodily over his lap.

The soft, groaning breath Tormund gives is fuel straight on the fire in Jon's core. He presses their bodies together with all the desperation of the seldom-touched and lets Tormund smooths his hands all up his back; strokes into his hair and kneads up under his shirt like he knows it.

They pant and twist and kiss, so many kisses. Jon has to stop and breathe. He thinks they're both equally drunk, equally overwhelmed by sensation, but Tormund's hands are so warm on him, holding and steadying. He's breathing hard too.

Actively slowing his breaths, Jon closes his eyes and presses their foreheads together.

"You're drunk," Tormund mutters.

"Probably.”

“I am too."

"And if we weren't?" Jon asks lazily.

Tormund makes a non-committal noise. "Does it matter?"

"You brought it up."

"Wanted to give you an out."

"I know I'm drunk," Jon tells him, pulling his head down again.

"I know you know," Tormund whispers.

"Stop talking," Jon tells him.

"Yes, m'Lord." It's said sarcastically; he lets Jon kiss him again though, his gripping hands ample encouragement, threading through Jon's curls like he doesn't want to let go.

"So pretty," he whispers. "Gods, you're so pretty."

"Tor," Jon pleads softly, "don't..."

Tormund shushes him, stroking down Jon's chest gently, visibly pleased by the way Jon relishes the touch, murmuring into his mouth.

He can't believe how good he feels. He wants to tell him about it, but doesn't want to stop kissing him for a moment. It can wait, he thinks. It's not going to stop any time soon.

Tormund seems in agreement; he's breathing low and vocal, one thumb stroking over Jon's hip gently. He cradles him so gently, hands always in motion, warm and solid.

Their movements are losing urgency and slowing to something else, something sweeter. Just sleepy touches, skin on skin. With twin deep sighs of content, they brush noses, relaxing. Eventually Tormund shifts them gently so they're stretched out on the couch instead, comfortably pressed chest to thigh in the warm. The couch is just big enough to cradle them.

Tormund's arm is under his neck, his hand absently tangled in Jon's hair. His breath is warm where it scuds across Jon's lips, and when he kisses him again, Jon's helpless arching presses them together all the more. His head swims with it, with everything, and he can’t hold back a soft noise.

Tormund squeezes him minutely closer, murmuring under his breath.

"All right?" He whispers.

Jon just nods, restless squirming settling into a comfortable press. Tormund is stroking down his side, the movement soothing, until Jon thinks he's going to fall asleep in another moment.

"Tor," Jon mutters. "Tor, can I stay?"

"Of course you can stay," Tormund laughs.

Jon's not sure what's so funny, but he's asleep before he can finish frowning.


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing he’s aware of when he wakes is that he's hungover. That is simply unmissable, like a clamped metal bar around his temples. The second is that he's alone.

He reaches stupidly to the floor, like Tor might still be within arm's reach. His fingers touch Ghost instead, who sleepily starts to lick his hand until Jon pulls him up into his arms, soothing him to silence echoed only by silence in the rest of the house. The sun streams in the windows. It's late.

Apprehension suffuses Jon's every move as he lurches up; diverts to the bathroom. He washes his face, brushes his teeth and gets dressed, tersely rushed. It's becoming quickly apparent that he's been - left. The thought sticks something sharp in a place Jon hasn't acknowledged for a long time. It hurts. A lot. Enough that he's scooping up Ghost and pacing instead of eating, or going to the barn.

Everything he knows of Tormund goes against this, but he knows it's true - he's being avoided.

He can make that easier, he thinks, fishing his car keys out of his jacket pocket. He grabs his phone too - there's a barrage of messages on the family group chat; Sansa and the others asking if he's coming home, and shit, he'd forgotten. But - he should. Nothing is stopping him. Not anymore.

With a sour hurt opening in the pit of his stomach, he grabs the rest of his belongings from the spare room and hurries back down to Ghost.

When he heads out into the yard to load his car, he sees no one, and the simple truth of it feels like a slap to his face, enough that his eyes sting as he turns his face from the cool, pale sky and slips into his car. He calls Sansa as he drives, trying to keep his voice from sounding too thick.

“Hi, sorry to spring this on you but - is it alright if I come home early?”

“Jon, of course it is, you know it is. Are you on your way now?”

“Only just, I’ll be hours yet.”

“No problem. I can’t wait to see you. Drive safely, okay?”

“Okay.”

He doesn't even go home, just heads for the motorway, following signs for South and handing over his papers at the Wall to cross the border. After that, he heads South, keeping his speed up in order to make the most of the mid morning quiet.

Once he has some miles under his belt, a stop at a miserable gas station tides him over for breakfast for him and hot water from a hot drinks machine to fix a bottle for Ghost to go with his food. He puts a leash on him and feeds him on the grassy verge where he's pulled over, taking small comfort in his cautious curiosity at this new slice of the world. There’s evidence of frost, crystallising the glass and making everything glimmer. Ghost laps with interest at some frozen grass in the shade of a fence post, and Jon can’t help but smile at the way his tail wags.

He's always a comfort, though somewhat less so when he starts to howl halfway through the drive, long and bored and plaintive. Jon finds he rather wants to join in.

Instead he just pulls over again; takes him for a short walk and tries to clear his head of remembering. The taste and feel of Tormund still clings, and Jon rubs his eyes at the thought, and tries to keep them from stinging. He's so close to Winterfell, now, and he’s so distracted he can’t bring himself to worry about how it might go, turning up for their dinner a day early, unwashed and unkempt and constantly on the verge of tears.

He walks back to the car, clipping Ghost back into his harness in the back seat and letting out a breath of relief when he seems to settle for the remainder of the journey. Jon is only half as successful, though it's getting better now he's eaten.

And as the land becomes familiar, he has other things on his mind, like how long it's been since he last saw this place. He usually tries not to count.

After a couple more long hours, he finally sees the gates on the horizon, refurbished with modern iron railing now so that tourists might see the house and the pleasant grounds whilst vacationing in the surrounding town. Jon has to wait to be buzzed in, to his chagrin, but when they open and he slides down the manicured drive, the great main house looks as it ever did, imposing and medieval and fortressed. He smiles as he drives around to the back of the castle, recently repurposed as a more private entrance for Sansa in her comings and goings as the Queen in the North.

_No pageantry this weekend,_ she’d promised Jon in a text, _no staff and no politics. Just us four._

The thought of that is heaven to Jon now. He pulls up and opens the door, murmuring a couple of soothing words to Ghost when he starts to pad at the back door impatiently. Before Jon has a chance to let him out, the back door flies open and emits a cloud of red.

At first glance, it could be Catelyn, if she weren't long dead, but Sansa's inviting smile is like nothing he'd ever seen on Catelyn's face. She barrels into his arms so fast he drops his bag to hold her; squeezes her so tight he lifts her off the ground.

Ghost yips repeatedly from the car.

"Oh my god," Sansa says over his shoulder, "let me see-"

He laughs and lets go.

Ghost is uncharacteristically shy when he first opens the door, but soon warms up to Sansa, jumping up at her off the seat to sniff her ears.

Sansa gathers him up as soon as he's unbuckled, uncaring of the white hair flying despite her beautiful, and undoubtedly expensive dress.

"My gods, Jon, he's gorgeous!"

Jon smiles, collecting his bag again. "So are you. Let's take him inside."

Sansa puts Ghost down and leads them inside, beaming at Jon softly. Strange, to be smiled at by her. Jon’s not the only one who's had the past few years change them.

"Welcome home, Jon," she whispers, and it loosens something in his chest to hear the words.

"Thanks," he whispers back.

In the great, gleaming foyer, he hears the clatter of footsteps, and then Arya collides with him too. He drops the bag again for another hug.

"Hello, warrior queen."

"Hello, wolf dad," she replies, and he knows she's peeking over his shoulder, but he squeezes her for another moment anyway. He lets them fuss Ghost while he looks around. The place is quite different.

"Where's Bran?"

"Back in the library, where else?" Sansa replies.

"Let me go say hi?"

"I'll put your bags in your room," Arya volunteers. She’s looking wonderful too, lean and fierce and tanned from her time away. Jon has missed them both so. “We waited to eat lunch for you to get here, shall I start?”

“You didn’t have to…” he smiles. "Thanks, though. I won’t be long.”

Leaving Ghost to follow Arya and Sansa to the kitchen, Jon treads the familiar path toward the library, everywhere looking new and strange. Sansa has done a lot of work here, he realizes, not sure if his grateful or disappointed. It feels like a jumble of both.

It tips to grateful when he finds Bran among the shelves after walking down a smooth ramp where the stairs used to be. His brother is reading with a blanket draped over his lap, looking unusually casual, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He's so grown up, suddenly, easily taller than Jon out of the chair - and of course he’s grown up. He runs an entire nation. It’s a difficult thought to swallow, when Jon remembers teaching him to ride a bike.

Now, Bran raises his head and looks at Jon like he can hear his thoughts, a smile ticking the corner of his mouth.

"Hello, Jon."

"Bran," Jon murmurs. "It's good to see you."

"And you." Bran smiles at him softly. "You're sad to be here, though. You look sad."

"Not about being here," Jon says.

"It looks different," Bran says mildly, "it feels different. A new home, and an old home."

"I think I like that."

"I do too," Bran agrees mildly. He looks at Jon. "But you have a new home too now, don't you?"

"I'm… trying to make it one."

"How is that going?"

"Ghost helps. You'll probably meet him soon."

"You've met someone else?" It's not quite a question despite the way it’s posed.

Jon bites his lip. He doesn't quite have an answer, either.

"It'll be okay," Bran assures him softly. That's the thing about Bran - you can't help but believe him.

Jon smiles sadly. "I hope so. Are you ready to come visit?" he asks. "Or-"

"I'm reading, but I'll be there for lunch."

"Okay. It's good to see you," Jon bleats again, but Bran doesn’t seem to mind.

"And you, Jon."

He goes back to his book as Jon sees himself out, parsing out this new version of his little brother. So still now, so different since the accident. Jon knows a bit of what that's like, now. He's not sure how he or his siblings survived this last few years. Not all of them did.

But they’re here now, Bran, and Sansa, and Arya - and him. His heart aches at the thought of the half of them they've lost.

A contemplative cloud hovers over him as he makes his way back to the front of the house, listening to his sisters’ jumbled, excited voices - not Lords and Ladies or Queens or Captains, but siblings reunited. His little sisters. They're so lovely, both of them, and so strong, and he’s never been more proud.

For a moment, he's free from his turmoil surrounding the little farm beyond the Wall, and he lets out a long, steady breath.

"I'm cooking," Arya says proudly when he enters the kitchen, "hope you're hungry."

He meets Sansa's eyes and she laughs. "Say yes; she's learned a few things."

"Starving," he says, honestly.

"Did you run out without breakfast this morning, Jon?"

"I had a cereal bar on the road."

"That's not enough," Sansa fusses, even as Arya says "That's better than nothing."

"Come and help me, you can have a taster." Arya continues, then she holds up a spoon like a sword. “Lie to me if you don’t like it.”

Jon goes obediently to taste, and after giving it the green light- entirely genuine= he starts running water to wash up. Nearby, Sansa sits on the counter and fills Jon in on things he never really thinks about anymore while they cook, like which aunts and uncles attended recent fundraisers, and which cousins are getting married. It goes over Jon’s head, but he listens, because she seems so pleased to talk. It's good to be distracted; to feel light again.

He doesn't say much, just watches Ghost lie in the corner and chew one of the toys he brought with him.

Eventually Bran joins them for lunch and they eat and talk, and laugh. Arya regales them with stories of the places she’s been, her new conservation projects and how much Jon would like parts of Essos. He resists telling her he’s perfectly happy in the freezing True North, and why, and Sansa saves him having to stutter out his excuses by talking about how many Lords have offered themselves as suitors recently.

When the plates are empty and Arya has started threatening to catapult couscous at Sansa across the table, Jon does the dishes once more while the others clear the table and take it in turns to fuss Ghost. It occurs to Jon that he's managed not to think about Tormund for a while. It feels like a conscious decision though; a leviathan emotion. And now that he's started, he's finding it difficult to stop.

A sharp snick of pain brings him back from the precipice, and he looks down at the soapy water; the broken glass that just implanted itself in his palm. He just sighs and lifts it to inspect.

"Jon?" It's Sansa in the doorway, her hair a little wild.

"I'm fine," he says.

"You sure?"

"I just have to get this glass out."

"Let me." She goes for her bag and rummages out a pair of tweezers, holding them over the hob flame to sterilise them.

When Jon has dabbed the water away, he holds it out, grimacing, but Sansa is quick and efficient as she cleans the wound.

"You seem more distracted than usual," she observes, quietly.

Jon watches her hands instead of her face. "Maybe."

"You don't have to tell me. I know I haven't exactly earned the right to ask - but I'd like to help, if there's anything I can do."

He looks up at her earnest face, then glances at the door where he knows Arya still plays with Ghost. "Maybe all three of us?"

"Bran too, if you want."

Jon can't shake the strange impression from earlier that Bran already knows everything he might possibly say.

"Unless he's busy."

She nods, and leaves him with a cloth still pressed hard over his hand. It occurs to Jon that he might be coming out. That feels as unreal to him as everything else has today. It seems so normal - even now, when Tormund has left him sleeping on his sofa rather than facing him, Jon can't pretend this hasn't happened. He can't pretend something in him hasn't changed. It's a relief to admit it, even just to himself.

And so they end up in the conservatory, all four of them and Ghost. Bran gives a small, encouraging nod from by the door as Jon comes to perch on the edge of the coffee table, his siblings an audience before him. He pretends not to notice as Ghost worms his way into his brother's lap now, and all of them struggle to keep a straight face.

“Someone’s happy, at least,” Jon quips, smiling at Ghost for a moment before he looks around at them again. “Okay, here goes: I met someone.”

Silence for a moment, and then Arya pipes up.

"Good, no one expected you to mourn Ygritte forever."

Sansa smacks her arm. "That's a personal decision."

"Well she wouldn't have wanted him to be alone forever."

"It's nothing to do with Ygritte," Jon says, affectionately.

"So tell us what it is to do with."

He hesitates, trying to find the right words.

"I told you I've been spending a lot of time with a friend."

"The farmer?" Sansa asks.

"Tormund," Jon nods. Arya's brows are drawing speculatively now. Bran doesn't react.

"Something happened," Sansa says.

"You could say that." Jon itches his own arm absently through his jumper, looking at the floor. "He's the only person I've felt comfortable around for a long time."

"Other than us."

"Of course. And, obviously he's a man," Jon sighs. "I don't know how to think about that."

Arya gives him her best cowing stare.

"There's nothing wrong with being queer, Jon."

"I didn't mean that," Jon assures. "I'm just finding my feet - I've never experienced this before. I was never interested in love before Ygritte, and it's been years, I thought I just - wasn't meant to do it."

"That would have been okay too," Arya says, glancing at her sister.

"I know." Jon sighs. "But I didn't see that what I was feeling was - I didn't understand it at first. And I think he's tired of me being - slow on the uptake."

He watches all three of his siblings hide the same smile.

"Don't," he complains faintly.

"You know we love you," Sansa says, which makes him feel a bit hot behind the eyes.

"And I love you."

"Tell us what happened," Bran puts in quietly.

Jon sighs quietly.

"We got pretty drunk, and kissed, and spent the night on his couch." It sounds so bloodless that way.

"That sounds like a good thing," Arya says, visibly confused.

"Yeah, I thought so too- but this morning, I was supposed to help with chores, that was why I was staying there, but… he left me there to wake up alone."

"And you don't think it was just to spare you the work?"

"I think it was to spare an awkward discussion."

"How can you be sure?"

"Tor usually relishes an awkward discussion." He knows him so well, he realises. He's seen him in so many states - joyful, pensive, exhausted. Drunk enough to lean on Jon and whisper him his fears. That last one had made Jon feel like he'd swallowed a live bird.

The thought makes him recall what Tor said last night, about Jon already being there - that startling implication that he was everything Tormund could want. No one has ever said anything like that to him before. It hurts to reflect on it, too much to hold.

"Jon?" Sansa reaches for him. "If he's waited this long for you to catch on, he isn't going to turn away when you finally do. He was probably worried you weren't going to remember, or that you'd regret it."

"I wasn't that drunk!"

“So...the second one, then.” She shrugs illustratively.

Arya puts in - "I know if I was in love with someone I didn't think could love me back, this would confuse me."

Jon looks at her, all big dark eyes, and then to Bran, pale and tranquil.

"I think it's not too late," Bran says, softly. It feels like a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Overwhelmed, Jon stares down at his hands.

"But if he's waited this long," Sansa reiterates gently, "he can probably wait a little longer, if you're not ready."

They all sit quietly when he doesn't answer right away.

"What if I change my mind? What if he does-?"

"It happens," Arya says.

That seems bloodless too, and not like Tormund at all - or indeed Jon, he thinks, frowning to himself. He only now realizes how much he doesn't want it to happen. There's something else, he realises.

"I don't want to be a soldier anymore."

"That's a change," Arya comments gently.

"I know." He closes his eyes. "I took a leave, just a couple days ago. Tormund… he told me I ought to. My counsellor agreed."

"I already like the sound of him," Arya says dryly.

"I want to see a picture," Sansa replies.

Jon hesitates. It feels presumptuous, but he wants to show them. He thinks that means something. Shaking his head at himself, he unlocks his phone and finds a recent selfie. When he shows it, both his sisters' faces light up.

"Gods, Jon!" Sansa laughs. "He's enormous!"

"Everyone's tall next to me."

"No, but. Enormous. Truly."

"He's big, aye, I guess." He tries to ignore the feeling it gives him to consider.

Arya pulls a little, scandalised face. "I didn't know you had it in you."

That makes him scowl at her, but she grins, so Jon just leans back in his chair and puts a hand over his eyes.

"Don't," he says again, miserably.

"Jon," Sansa soothes.

"What?" He sighs loudly.

"I think you ought to call him."

"Maybe I will."

They continue to stare at him.

"What, now?"

"You obviously want to," says Arya.

"I- well."

"I'd like to go back to my reading," Bran interrupts, not unkindly.

"Of course, thank you, Bran."

His brother fixes his dark gaze on him for a moment. "You'll find what you need in the fields."

"I hope so," Jon whispers. He gets up, squeezing Bran's shoulder before he leaves.

Leaving Ghost in the warm, Jon steps outside, into the gardens, and starts to walk, along the manicured paths and then away into the thin woodlands behind the house. It's getting colder down here too, but still noticeably mild compared to his little cottage; Tormund's farm. He turns his face up to the trees above him at the thought, Winterfell's crowning glory, and makes the call as he looks up at the familiar crimson leaves, bleeding out amongst the autumn greens and ambers.

The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and despite himself, Jon feels his optimism ebb as Tormund's voicemail kicks in. He hangs up, holding the phone between his hands for a moment, pressing his thumbs to his forehead. Takes a long breath, and calls again. Voicemail again. Jon lets it beep this time.

"Tor… I hope you're busy and not just screening your calls.” He looks at the sky again, considering. "I just wanted to call to... well, to talk about last night. I really want to talk about it," he emphasizes gently.

"I came back to Winterfell and I'm with my family, and I love them. I've missed them but - I thought I was coming home but I'm not. My home is - up there. Where you are. I think it's you that's - you're everyone I could want, too. I don't really want to be telling you this over the phone," he whispers. "Please call me back."

With that, he hangs up and folds down under the tree. In the distance, he hears a familiar sound, and then Ghost bounds down the path toward him, his bright eyes catching the late afternoon sun as he runs to Jon. His sisters don't follow, which Jon is privately glad for. He needs a moment.

Ghost's hapless joy is enough to soothe him, briefly, or at least keep him from the edge of melancholy. He throws sticks for him for a while, meandering through the trees, and pausing when the imposing turrets of the castle peek through the Autumn trees, the sky gold in the late afternoon. It calms him, as it always has, to look back on the great stone pile; the familiar turrets and battlements of the castle old, and the newer renovations within. A great shell to shelter his family.

They'll be okay without him, he knows. He's not too far to come if he's needed - but they haven’t needed him for a long time. He looks down at Ghost, and sighs.

He doesn't want Tor to be okay without him, he realises, with a flash of self-loathing. Gods, he's never been so selfish. He just… wants to be necessary to someone. He wants to be needed for who he is, and not for what he can give.

"Call me back," he mutters to his phone again.

When Ghost has calmed, Jon throws himself down under the red leaved tree again, accepting the wolf’s warm weight against him. He’s solid and comfortable as he sprawls in Jon’s lap, a reassuring presence among the lengthening shadows. Jon’s eyes flutter closed before he can stop them.

The moon is rising when he opens them again. Did he fall asleep? He didn't have nightmares. The lights are shining down at the house, and he’s sure he’s been here long enough that his sisters might be starting to worry. With a groan, he rouses his sleeping pup and trudges back to the house. He hasn't missed any calls while he slept, he sees, but it doesn't matter to him any more. He's going back tomorrow. He can’t let Tormund make this decision for him.

Inside, Sansa is curled on the rug by the hearth, reading, and she gives Jon a faintly worried look when he comes in from the conservatory, all the blinds pulled down and the door now locked behind him.

He reaches down with his free hand to tousle her hair.

"Thanks for inviting me," he whispers.

"I'm so glad you came. You're leaving again, though, aren't you?"

"In the morning," Jon nods, only faintly apologetic, "I have to go find Tormund. I’ll miss the festivities."

"I forgive you, but you better come back soon," her eyes crinkle warmly.

He smiles, and bends to kiss her brow. "Good night."

When he reaches his room, he lets out a long breath, then jumps as Arya materializes out of the shadows.

"My heart can't take that shit, Arya," he laughs, clutching his chest.

"Exposure therapy," she says. "What happened out there?"

"Nothing. I fell asleep."

"Did he -"

"Answer? No." Jon shivers. "I left a voicemail but - well, maybe he hasn't got it."

"Probably hasn't. Are you all right?"

"I don't... I don't know if I am," Jon admits, shakily, "but I'm getting there."

"I know you are," she says.

He nods. "And what about you, little Arya?"

"I'm gonna go somewhere again," she says.

"Where to this time?"

"Dunno. Any suggestions?"

"I've never left Westeros. I've always wanted to go to Sothoryos."

"Seems like you're going the opposite direction," she smiles.

"Aye. It's about to get a whole lot colder. I'm sort of used to it by now." He thinks of the verdant fields slowly blanketed with snow. "I think I even like it," he muses.

"I can tell. There is something different about you."

"A good thing?" He smiles.

"Yeah. Besides the furry shadow."

"Aw, you don't mean that."

"He's a lovely furry shadow."

"He is the best part of me."

"Maybe," Arya allows. "The part that's loving, certainly."

Jon stalls; frowns. "What do you mean?"

"You love him, Jon. I know you love us, but it’s good to see you loving something because it brings you joy, and not because it’s your duty. I didn't used to think you'd let anyone else in."

"I didn't have a choice for a long time. Only so much you can love people who don't love you back."

She nods sadly. She knows.

He bites his lip, eyes stinging. "I always knew you loved me, though."

"I know. Misfits have to stick together.” She nudges him, and he knows it’s true, especially in a place like this. She gives him a smile. "Good night, Jon."

He says good night and watches her slip out, cat quick and quiet. There’s nothing but silence now, bar Ghost on the rug in front of the fire, and it feels strange to be without the distance sounds of the woods and farm.

He checks his phone again miserably when he's washed up and climbed into bed - his old bed, in his old room, as of yet untouched by Sansa's designs. Still nothing. He misses Tormund not unlike a limb, with a hurt in his heart.

He shouldn't have left like this. Neither should Tormund.

The thought makes Jon a little angry, but mostly just heartsick.

Ghost ambles up onto the bed beside him and lies in the crook of his arm, licking at his jaw and ears companionably. Aching with sadness, Jon strokes his fur until he settles. Eventually, it settles him too.

*

Early the next morning, he steals quietly down the stairs only to find all three siblings in the kitchen.

“I guess being some of the most powerful people in the company makes for early risers,” he muses aloud, to a few smiles.

"Want some toast?" Arya waves a plate at him, a homemade breakfast sandwich clamped in her other hand. Bran is drinking tea, and Sansa picking at toast with jam.

"I'd love some." He sits down and fixes his own plate, Sansa sliding him a cup of tea. Even though it’s comfortable, they're all relatively quiet save for a few murmurs about the day's happenings.

Jon remembers breakfast when they were children; how raucous it always seemed. They're all different now. He thinks they've done all right, considering.

He feeds Ghost after he eats, then goes to get his bag from the bedroom, leaving the bed made and the towels in the washing basket, checking his phone again only to be disappointed.

Downstairs, his siblings have gathered to say goodbye to him in the foyer, and their hugs make him tear up.

He has to collect himself in the car for a while before he sets off, but then he does without looking back, glancing at his sweet boy in the passenger seat and driving just a hair faster when he hits the open roads once more.

He's feeling sore and meek at Tormund's uncharacteristic silence today, not sure what he did to deserve it. He needs to go home and think a while. He can't wait to see the little cottage, even shabby as it is. Somehow, it’s become as much of a beacon as he imagined when he arrived, the porch light glowing from the movement of the car when he pulls in that evening, everything as he left it.

Relieved to be home, he lets out a soft breath. Ghost is asleep, and he shoulders his bag and carries him inside, glad for his warmth in the cool air: Winter is stealing in fast here.

It takes him a while to get the log burner going once he’s settled, but soon the living room is glowing with rosy light and he settles down with Ghost in a blanket in the overstuffed armchair there. Automatically he glances at his phone again. Still nothing. He feels so stupid.

Bravery is a painful concept, these days, but he summons enough of it for a text. Two words: _>>I'm home.<<_

He hates himself almost as soon as he sends it: it feels too much like a plea. A courtesy, he tells himself. He closes his eyes against a throb of self pity: he really ought to have started some music, maybe bought a pint of ice cream. Anything to distract himself from the gape in his chest.

Warm and listless, he drifts off for - who knows how long, really? His sleep seems crowded with half dreams; half memories, until a car door in the lane rouses him, and Ghost is yipping, shifting. Jon rubs his eyes, trying to clear his head.

Someone's knocking on his door.

Shaking off sleep, he lets Ghost down and goes to answer it. His breath catches in the back of his throat at the tall figure waiting in the porchlight.

"Jon," Tormund whispers. "Let me in?"

Taking a steadying breath in, Jon steps back, eyes big. Tormund follows, albeit hesitantly.

"You didn't answer my messages," Jon says, voice faintly accusatory.

"I'm not good on the phone.”

"Neither am I. But I tried--”

"Yes. I know that." Tormund fidgets, looking huge in the cramped hallway. "I wanted to follow you, when I saw you were gone," he adds quietly.

"Then why did you leave me on my own?" Jon asks, quietly incredulous.

In the silence, Tormund looks down at his boots, apparently searching for the words. "Do you know how long I've waited for you to notice I fucking like you, boy?"

"I… sense it's a long time, Tor."

Tormund sighs. "You could say that."

"I'm sorry," Jon says quietly, genuinely.

Tormund shifts and shrugs. "It didn't bother me at all, Jon. Until it did. I just - couldn't face not seeing it reflecting back to me, that morning."

"You know me better than that," Jon beseeches him, "you do." He's so frustrated that Tormund won't look at him, that he just - propels himself directly into his space, until Tormund puts his hands on his shoulders, maybe to stall him, maybe to keep him close.

"Tell me you _know_," Jon begs him, looking up at the tangle of beard, searching for blue eyes.

"I don't know-! You're, fuck, Jon. One minute you're with me and the next you're miles away, I just fucking panicked, okay?"

"I did too, I know that. But I wouldn’t have run if you hadn’t first, I thought. I thought I was wrong..."

Tormund sighs heavily. "You've been oblivious all this time, haven't you?"

"Yes! Tormund, gods, I am an oblivious person, I admit it. Ask my sisters."

"You've never been with a man. It's a lot up here sometimes, Jon, if you're not in the right... place."

"I love it up here," Jon murmurs.

"That isn't what I mean."

"Then tell me what you mean," Jon pleads. When Tormund is sheepishly quiet, Jon balks with realisation. "You think I'm having some kind of crisis? That I'm experimenting?"

That upsets him enough that he tries to slip out of Tormund's grip.

"Hey," Tormund holds fast, "don't fuckin' do that. Tell me if I'm wrong, but I see you here all carved up and confused and we've never talked about anything of the sort before, it's not out of the realm of possibility, Jon. I've been in that situation before and I'm usually the one carved up by the end of it." There's something pleading and urgent there, his eyes wide.

"I was confused about my job, Tor, not about you. You're what made me happy here. You and Ghost." He spares a glance for the pup, sitting confused and alert on the couch.

Tormund seems unconvinced, but Jon shoulders closer. "Tormund. Don't you remember what you said to me? About everyone you need? That's how I feel about you, you're the first thing I think about when I wake up. I've spent the last three months trying to _rationalise_ why I think about you so much. And now I know why." He feels his eyes well up. "You made me fall in love with you, and you weren't even trying. Not really. So I think the least you could do is let me put some effort in."

That sets Tormund off as well, and he clears his throat, shaking his head like he's trying to clear it.

"Jon..."

"What?" Jon rasps. He feels the knot in his throat tighten when Tormund cups his face in his hands.

"I'll give you anything you want," he rumbles.

"I just want you to trust me to know myself." He finally meets Tormund's eyes. "Please."

Tormund swallows heavily, taking a deep breath. He strokes Jon's cheek.

"Aye." With his other hand, he reaches back to pull the tie out of Jon's hair, sinking a hand into the curls. Jon can't hold back a little, damp laugh.

"You're obsessed."

"With you? Aye, guilty."

"It's mutual," Jon mutters. "I told my sisters and my brother about you. Everyone seemed to know how I felt before I did."

"I told my daughters," Tormund answers. "I had to sneak out of the house so they didn't know I was coming over here."

Jon bites his lip, something warm and soft blooming in his ribs.

"Can I meet them?"

"Jon. Of course," Tormund says.

"Good." Jon takes a breath. "Can I have something else?"

Tormund's eyes are so meltingly blue. "Tell me what you need, Jon."

With a sigh, Jon pulls him down into a kiss, relieved beyond words when Tormund immediately pulls him close. It's crushing; exactly as close as Jon wants to be. He groans softly into it, and Tormund makes an answering sound, soft and grateful.

His kisses, on the other hand, are long and desperate. Jon clutches him tighter, touching his hair, his back, trying to minimise whatever scant space remains between them. His head spins with the extent of his sheer joy. He's alight with want, pricking all his nerves and fizzing in the pit of his stomach. This isn't anything like kissing Tormund the other night; he's tense and needy and he knows Tormund is too; he feels tight and ready where before he felt loose from drink. The realisation of why makes Jon's cheeks heat. It's been a long time since he's been so turned on.

He pulls back, breathing hard. "When d'you have to be back-?"

"Morning chores," Tormund mumbles. “I can stay, if that’s okay with you.”

"What about your family, won't they wonder where you've got to-?"

"I'll send a text, they're teenagers, they'll be fine."

"Are you sure-?"

"If it means I can stay with you," Tormund breathes.

"You can. I want you to."

Tormund's arms only get tighter. His expression takes on an edge of mischief.

"You want me to?"

"I really do," Jon whispers, and he can't help but laugh at Tormund's eyebrow.

"Jon," he says in a pleased, nearly smug tone.

"Tormund." He accepts another long kiss. When Tormund tires of leaning down for him, he just lifts him right off his feet.

"Tormund-" Jon guffaws, wriggling. "Don't!"

"I'm ignoring you."

"I can see that! Just… I have a couch, can we go to it?"

"What will we do there, Jon?"

"Not be in the air?"

"And you'd have me believe you were dumb."

Jon laughs. "Not that dumb." He wriggles a bit. "If you won't go to the couch, let me down so we can go upstairs."

Tormund obeys, letting him slide down until his feet touch the ground. The feel of it makes both of them catch their breath, and they stay pressed close for a moment, until Jon forcibly pulls away, just enough to guide Tormund upstairs by his hand. It feels surreal, but he's not about to stop.

The stairs creak, and then they're in Jon's little room, and he feels a little self conscious about the state it's in - moderate disarray. He needn’t worry, though, it’s plain Tormund has no eyes for anything inside it but Jon.

He strokes Jon's hair, eyes soft. "You're so beautiful. Do you know that?"

"I don't know that. I know what you are."

"What am I?"

"Stunning. Unbelievable. Lots of things." Jon's fierce blush spreads, but Tormund's eyes are nothing but blue fire, caressing and eager. He reaches out and snags the hem of Jon's cardigan, starting to wind it into his fingers.

"Look at you," he croons. "You look like winter to me, do you know that? The solstice, and the first frost, and the way the colour seems to seep out of the world for a while, turn it all to bone and black. Beautiful. It's no wonder they call you 'Snow'."

"That's not why," Jon says dizzily.

"I disagree." He tugs at Jon's hem again. "Let me get these dark feathers off of you, crow."

Jon holds his arms up dumbly, unable to keep the stupid smile off his face. Tormund is surprisingly gentle as he strips him, his hands so warm, his gaze intent. Jon soon forgets to stand still in lieu of returning the favour. Tormund smiles at him, standing close, humming with pleasure when Jon starts to unbutton his shirt.

Jon's tempted to just yank it over his head but he's not sure it would make it. With every inch of muscled shoulders that he exposes, his mouth goes more dry.

He's still staring when Tormund pushes on him; bears him down to the bed behind them and settles smoothly overtop of him. He makes a noise that doesn't even try to be words: Tormund is as warm as the flames in his hair; freckled and flecked with tattoos. He’s overwhelming.

Jon touches a few, mostly just to touch him. He feels the vibration of Tormund's pleased rumble in his own chest.

He feels _everything_ \- Tormund is heavy but Jon wouldn't dream of making him move.

"This is good, Tor," he whispers.

"Aye," Tor whispers into the skin under his ear. Then, he kisses his throat. He's moving so slowly, but he's not gentle, as such. No, Jon can feel every touch like a brand.

He sighs softly, tilting his head up, feeling his lips, beard, teeth. Tormund doesn't spare him any of it. With hands smoothing over his skin, Jon arches helplessly.

"Gods," he whispers.

Tormund makes a soft noise of pleasure. "I'll show you ours, you'll like 'em."

"Will I now? What will I like about them?"

"They're wild," Tormund murmurs, nibbling along his jaw.

"I think you're enough wild for me."

Tormund laughs. "Can get wilder."

"Be my guest." He tangles his hands in Tormund's hair to encourage him, gasping when Tormund dips to kiss his chest, careful when he gets to the scars.

His lips and tongue move everywhere, and he doesn't even seem vaguely hesitant to tuck his fingers into Jon's waistband; tug it low enough to lick each hipbone, the delicacy of his movements bringing Jon to whining, and then to blushing surprise when Tormund rips both his underwear and sweats down with a business-like hum.

He gasps at the cool air; again at the hot palms smoothing up his thighs.

"I've never seen anything like you," Tormund whispers.

"Why not?"

"Not been lucky enough until now I guess." He coaxes Jon's thighs wider to lie between them, seeming effortlessly casual, so natural to have Jon naked before him.

"Wait- I want yours off too?"

"In a moment, love."

"Why?" He fails to keep it from sounding slightly whiny.

"I'm enjoying this." He kisses him, just lightly, right over the protruding hipbone he'd tasted before. Another shiver, and Jon stifles a shaky sigh. Then Tormund kisses his way back up to his lips. Slowly. His hair is soft and thick and warm when Jon sinks his fingers into it. He doesn't let Jon guide his mouth, but he does let him hold it in place.

"Fuck," Jon mutters, when Tormund bites down gently on the soft pink of his nipple. His teeth pinch just enough. Then he sucks. Jon can feel himself filling out, flush against Tormund's hip. The friction feels good, so he presses up a bit for more.

"Jon..." Tormund's voice is pure velvet as he reaches between them and curls a hand around Jon's cock. He squeaks at the contact, pushing into it with no little desperation. "That's it, crow. You feel perfect."

"I, I can't - don't you want -"

"You can't what?"

"I can't tell you what to do next."

"You think I need instructions?"

"Probably not! But I do!"

"You don't get yourself off?"

"W-when I need it -"

"So shy, you Southerners," Tormund smiles. "Look, you don't have to do anything if you don't want to. You can just lie back and let me do the work. But I suspect you won't like that idea."

Jon shakes his head. "Tell me," he whispers.

"Tell you what, Jon Snow?" He's still stroking Jon, making him arch and twitch even as they talk.

"Tell me what to do to please you."

"You are pleasing me." Jon frowns up at him, watching his eyes sparkle. "We can do as much or as little as you like, Jon," Tormund adds, seriously. "Is this alright?"

Jon nods. "I just want you to feel like I do."

"And I want you to relax. Can we trade one for the other?"

"I'll try."

Tormund smiles at him softly. He runs his thumb over the flush tip of Jon's cock, squeezing him gently as he leans down to kiss him. "I think about this so much," he says.

"You do? Tell me what you think about?"

"Finding you in your bed," Tormund tells him. "Sleepy and warm."

"Yeah? You been watching me?" It's a gentle tease, but Tormund still looks a bit sheepish.

"Whenever I can."

"Tell me more," Jon breathes.

"It was nice, when you came to stay. I could see your bedhead and pillow wrinkles and...pretend."

That just makes Jon's heart ache. He kisses Tormund again hard. "No more pretending."

"Aye, now I can watch you sleep for real."

Jon laughs. That's his Tormund. "Just what you always wanted."

"Exactly."

They kiss again, a fast smear of lips that turns into something more purposeful. Each brush of their tongues makes him go more and more liquid inside. That, and Tormund's kneading strokes of his cock, gentle and slow, not to mention the hot press of Tormund's against his thigh.

Jon bridges his thigh up gently, gripping Tormund's back. "Tor-" Tormund hums. "Let me, Tor..."

He finally gets him to roll over onto his side. Jon scrambles open his jeans and disrobes him carefully. He can't quite help the whine deep in his throat.

"Tormund, gods..." He gulps in air. "You're gorgeous."

"I'm not bad," Tormund agrees, and he pulls Jon to roll on top of him with one easy motion.

That feels good too, so good that Jon needs to hold on. He kisses him urgently, clinging to his hands, and Tormund cheerfully allows himself to be pinned. He seems so pleased by this whole affair. Jon feels grateful and overwhelmed by it.

"I missed you the entire time I was gone," he mumbles.

"And I missed you. I spent the whole day miserable as fuck yesterday. My eldest sent me to bed."

"Did it work?"

"Not really."

"I'm sorry," Jon whispers.

"It's not your fault."

It is, if it's anyone's.

"I'm the one who turned tail first," Tormund reminds him.

"I don't want to talk about blame," Jon whispers. "I want to be with you."

"Good. That's all I want." He gets a hand back in Jon's hair and guides their lips together.

Jon finally stops thinking of anything but this. Tormund's hands are everywhere, and he coaxes Jon's to follow.

He's all hard muscle, dense and supple. Jon rocks his hips slightly as they kiss. Tormund's big hands coming to gleefully cover his backside and pull him closer is all the sign he needs that it's okay.

Jon moans softly. An answering shudder at that; the arch of Tormund's body against his, finding a rhythm. Jon squeezes a hand between them. Tormund feels so hard; hot and thick when Jon fists slowly along his shaft.

He shouldn't have doubted he could do this. He wonders if he even doubted he'd like it - he's never had even the slightest inclination towards anyone of a gender other than female before. Not that he's given it much thought. Tormund seems to exist outside of the parameters of conventional attraction. It's more than aesthetics, certainly. Even though his aesthetics are - unbelievable.

He's astonishing through and through, and so are the noises he makes, low and primal and strangely sweet. It makes Jon feel a bit lightheaded. He surges for another kiss, and Tormund rumbles happily. His hands squeeze, and Jon whimpers.

"Can I give you more?" Tormund murmurs against his lips.

Jon nods. "Yes," he whispers.

"You can tell me to stop whenever you want."

"All right."

Jon feels a little trepidation, but it's nothing like the pleasure he feels letting Tormund move him around. He ends up propped against the pillows - "So you can watch," Tormund grins.

"Watch-?"

"Watch me," Tormund winks. Jon's ears burn when he lowers his head and kisses Jon's trembling stomach. He can feel his breath going tight. "Do I need a skin?" Tormund asks, so casual Jon nearly laughs. He nearly does anyway: it's been a long time since he's been with _anyone_.

"I don't think so," Jon replies softly. "I don't - I trust you," he adds, preempting Tormund's next question.

"All right, little one."

He favours Jon with another adoring smile. Then his head dips again and he kisses Jon's protruding hipbones. Jon grips the covers, biting his lip against the desire to arch.

Tormund smooths his hands up to cover Jon's. He's kissing lower, going slow, and his tongue teases along the crease of his thigh. His beard is... interesting, against Jon's inner thighs. He knows now how his girlfriends have felt, he thinks with a dizzy smirk. It vanishes when Tormund gently licks up the underside of his cock where it lies against his belly, tongue flat and hot.

"Oh," he breathes.

He watches Tormund curl a hand around the base of his cock; stroke gently while he takes his first tastes of Jon, lapping and softly sucking at flushed skin. Jon bites back a whimper. His stomach and thighs tense, his knuckles whitening in the blankets.

"Tor-"

"It's all right, Jon," Tormund mumbles.

"Yeah," he nods fast, breathless.

"You're all right. I have you."

Jon unclamps his hand so Tormund can zipper their fingers together. He goes back to soft brushes of his tongue. When he closes his lips over the head of Jon's cock, it feels like he's winded by sensation. He keens, just softly but feelingly.

"Tormund, Gods-"

He's watching, just like he was told. It's difficult to make himself; everything feels so intense, but coupled with the sight of Tormund's soft mouth moving slick and fast over his cock, it's maddening. But Tormund wanted him to watch.

"Fuck," Jon breathes, "fuck." He touches the curls sprinting free of Tormund's braids, then closes his eyes tightly. He can't watch anymore, or this will be over too fast. He shifts; tenses as the pleasure crawls up his belly. Tormund's hands cradle him, stroke him just right. "Tormund - I feel so, you're... fuck-"

He can't even finish the sentence. He thinks maybe Tormund is laughing at him. Then again, it sounds more like purring, and it feels frustratingly good. Jon moves restlessly, trying to get even closer.

He feels Tormund's hand tighten on the root of his cock; the thumb of his other brush behind his balls as he swallows his cock deeper. "Ah, Gods," he groans. "Tor, I'm gonna come-" He tries to push him away but Tormund keeps his mouth around him, stroking even faster with his hand. "Tor," Jon cries out, "Tormund-"

He shakes apart, gasping for breath. He can _feel_ Tormund's soft moan around him, but it's all he can do to hold on. It feels long and trembling, rendering him dumb and wordless for a moment until it's all he can do to remember to breathe. Tormund doesn't let him out of his mouth until he's physically twitching away from the stimulation. Even then, he doesn't let go of his hands. Instead he kisses Jon's belly, and then his palms, and then leans up to kiss him slowly.

Jon moans again. He pulls one hand free just to tousle his hair, keep him close, and Tormund doesn't resist. It's startlingly intimate to feel his hardness against Jon's hip; his urgent hands moving over his skin.

"Tell me what to do for you," Jon whispers.

"Whatever you want."

"Tormund!" he protests. "I need more help than that."

"No you don't, love," Tormund murmurs, "you know what you're comfortable with."

Hands, he's comfortable with those. He shifts; they roll again so he can settle on Tormund's slightly spread thighs. Jon has to stop and look at him for a moment, his hair like a sunset, his blue eyes shining with delight.

"Stop smiling like that." Jon blushes.

"No," Tormund laughs softly.

Jon blushes harder, but reaches out to touch him. He strokes him gently, and then leans on second thought for lube from the bedside table. Tormund smirks at him when he gets the bottle out.

"Okay-?" Jon checks.

"Just admiring how prepared you are."

"I've been planning to awkwardly jack you off for weeks, in this way precisely," Jon agrees.

Tormund roars with laughter. "Good, then."

Jon can't help but grin even with his ears burning. He has to kiss him again. Tormund doesn't seem to care,, until Jon wraps a two slick hands around his cock and strokes. Then he arches up.

"Gods, boy."

"I like the way you say that," he whispers.

Tormund grins. "When I call you 'boy'?"

Jon nods, stroking. He watches Tormund's lips part, his breaths rushing, and kisses across his chest.

"That's perfect, Jon," he praises, putting his warm palm against Jon's chest; the scars. Sometimes the scars hurt, but Tormund's touch only soothes.

Jon keeps stroking, varying his pace when he can. He keeps kissing, too, unable to resist. Tormund's noises are perfect. Reassured that he feels good, he picks up the pace.

That's rewarded with a few more rumbling groans, and Jon smiles giddily. He catches Tormund's eye and, encouraged, strokes faster. The blue eyes squeeze shut at the sensation.

"Jon, perfect..." he squeezes the handful of Jon's hair he's seized.

Jon moans softly, appreciatively. He's bent close, feeling the warmth of Tormund's breath against his ear as he strokes him in smooth, slick stripes. He pillows his cheek on the broad chest and watches. He's slid half off him now, pressing himself close against his flank, supporting himself on his arm.

Tormund is making low noises. The sound makes Jon's lips buzz when he kisses him, but he keeps stroking. "Tor," he murmurs.

"Mm." He closes his eyes, panting softly.

"Come for me, please."

"Soon," Tormund promises, "gods, Jon, you're so fucking good."

Jon makes an appreciative noise. He could be obsessed with this, he thinks. He thinks he already is.

He feels Tormund slip his hand down to squeeze around Jon's gently, coaxing his hand to a rougher speed, kissing Jon hard. It feels even better to stroke together, to feel Tormund show him exactly how fast and how tight.

"Good," he rumbles. He's starting to breathe more vocally, body flexing, the muscles in his thighs standing defined.

"Yes," Jon whispers. He looks down to watch Tormund's cock peek between their circling fingers, glossy and flush. He's so close, Jon can feel it. He can practically _taste_ it, a sharpness in the air.

He can't help it, he leans down to taste for real. Tormund slows his hand with a soft groan of disbelief, his other following Jon's head; stroking his hair. Jon licks delicately, soft strokes of his tongue. Tormund pulses faintly in his hand at the touch and it renders him breathless for a moment.

He keeps going, savoring the reaction even though the taste is unfamiliar. When he closes his lips over the head and gently sucks and rubs with his tongue, Tormund lets out a deep, warning groan. Jon whimpers and pulls off, keeping his hand tight. Tormund cups his cheek with his palm, plainly focusing on Jon's mouth as he jolts and starts to come. He shoots up over his own hard stomach as Jon watches, his pale belly taut, his thighs shaking; he's one of the hottest things Jon has ever seen. He whines, feeling a zing of answering sensation in his own loins.

He keeps jerking Tormund's cock until he's spent and gasping, and then he crawls up into his waiting arms. Tormund pulls their mouths together without a word. It's so intense, just this. Jon feels electrified by the slide of their skin; the hot caress of their tongues. He doesn't want to move, doesn't think he even could. Eventually he sags down against Tormund, relishing their contact; all his warm skin.

Tormund strokes his hair. "Has anyone ever told you what a perfect arse you have?"

Jon laughs. "No?"

"It's fucking perfect," Tormund assures him.

"Thanks," Jon whispers. He laughs at Tormund's expression of plain adoration. It makes a bit of a lump in his throat.

"Did you mean what you said before?" Tormund whispers. "About being in love with me?"

"Tor - of course I did."

He watches him consider that, and sees that he's moved by it. "Good," he whispers, wrapping Jon up tighter. "Good."

That seems to be enough for him. He pulls the duvet up over them carefully, squeezing Jon again as they settle.

"I need to check on Ghost," Jon mumbles into his neck. "I will, in a minute."

"He's probably eating a shoe," Tormund agrees, cheerfully for all that.

Jon snorts. "No he isn't, he's too good for that."

"He is pretty good." He pets Jon's curls. "Like someone else I know."

"Pretty good. I'll take it."

Tormund laughs. "Stay here. I'll get your pup."

"I can go-"

"No, Jon. Just relax." He winks and pushes himself up.

Jon stays, blushing in the darkening room. The thought of Tormund, roaming around his house in the nude, is a lot. At the thought, Jon dives for his jeans; his phone. There are clothes all over his floor. That makes him grin in and of itself. When he sits back in bed with his phone, he listens to Tormund muttering to Ghost downstairs; the sound of the fridge opening.

_<<So I think we fixed it_,>> he texts Arya.

_>>I knew you could!<<_

He can't help but grin to himself. <<_Tell everyone else, I have to go. I'll call later?>>_

_>>Oo er. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!<<_

That doesn't narrow things down much. He sets the phone aside with a grin. He can hear Tormund coming back up with Ghost.

Tormund has a plate and two beers in on hand, the puppy in the other, and yes - still naked. "I feel like I've had some kind of fantasy like this," Jon muses.

"That's kinkier than I would have expected."

"No!" Jon laughs. "Not like - not the dog, gods almighty."

Tormund laughs so hard he practically drops the beers. Jon rescues them and swats his hip. Ghost bounds across the bed to jump on Jon, then.

"You can bite him anytime, you know," he tells him. He licks his face enthusiastically. "Hopeless." Tormund laughs as he climbs back into bed, and Jon leans over to inspect the plate. "What did you bring?"

"Pie. Peach."

"Oh, what? You had this in your truck? You're _naked_."

"You live in the middle of nowhere. I put a coat on." He hands Jon a fork. "Eat up."

Grinning helplessly, Jon just does as he's told, their shoulders leant together companionably, Ghost sprawling across their legs over the duvet. "This is good, did you make this?"

"Aye, did this one."

"You're a keeper," Jon tells him with a smile.

"I'm a hanger-on," Tormund agrees. He feeds Jon a slice of peach from his own plate.

Jon just laughs and blushes, and continues to lean into Tormund's side. It feels easier than he anticipated - because they already did this before, mostly. They've been in each other's pockets since Jon got here. He's beginning to see just how much he'd missed.

The thought makes him tip his head to Tormund's shoulder gratefully. Tormund curls around him after he puts the plate down and they watch each other in the dim light, smiling.

Tormund opens a beer for each of them. "I like you drunk," he tells Jon, with a grin.

"I hope that's not the only time," Jon says.

"Absolutely not." He grins down. "But I'll get drunk with you any time."

"I'll drink to that." And he does. Jon adores him, he realises. He's happy just watching him. Happier still when Tormund leans to kiss him again.

It's lazy and warm. Jon sets his beer aside and slides down further into the comfort of it. They fit together like a hand in glove. Tormund is so warm, so gentle as he starts to stroke through Jon's hair in slow waves.

"I missed you as soon as I left you yesterday morning," he whispers. "Don't leave me tomorrow morning, mm?"

"Promise," says Tormund. He hesitates, before adding softly, "I don't ever want to leave you."

Jon makes a satisfied noise. "Good. Don't."

Tormund reaches down to stroke Ghost's ears. "I want you both to come home with me tomorrow."

"Are you sure? What about the girls? Isn't it a bit soon?

"Nah. They're tough. And they know all about you, apparently I never shut up about you." He squeezes Jon gently. "Besides, we've been more or less dating since you got here."

"Glad you finally told me," Jon blushes.

Tormund shakes his head. "Boy," he sighs. "I don't think I knew it either." Jon smiles up at him, then kisses his chin. "Pretty little crow." Tormund pulls him closer for another kiss.

With a pleased little smirk, Jon folds his arms tighter around him and moans softly into his mouth. He's never felt so wanted. Not since another redhead, he thinks. That thought makes him pull back, eyeing Tormund. Clearly, he has a type.

"Have I mentioned Ygritte before?"

"No, Jon, I think I'd remember that."

Jon sighs quietly. "Wondered if drunk Jon was more forthcoming than I am."

"Not by that much, I'm afraid."

Jon hums. "She was the first girl I ever loved. It was when I was first in the army, the Watch they call it below the Wall."

"She was from here?" Tormund asks. "Her name -"

"Yeah." Jon bites his lip. "Yeah, she was."

"What happened?" Tormund says gently.

"She died," Jon whispers, "and it felt like it was my fault. My unit."

"Oh," Tormund murmurs. "Oh, Jon, I'm sorry."

Jon shrugs helplessly. "It was a while back I suppose and it's getting better but - being up here makes me feel better _and_ worse, y'know?"

"I understand. And you - don't feel quite the same about her anymore?" Tormund asks politely.

Jon peers back at him. "Tell you the truth, we were together so briefly - it still aches sometimes. It was over before it should have been. I almost feel like I miss the idea of her more than who I knew her as. It was secret, y'know, and stupid."

"Sure," Tormund says. "I've been there."

Jon shrugs. "But before that I was never interested in girls, boys neither."

"Really?" Tormund chuckles. "I was always... overly interested in both."

"That sounds about right." He leans up and kisses his cheek above the beard, fondly.

Tormund's thumb scratches gently against the grain of his own. "I think you were just meant to be up here North of the Wall, little crow."

"Maybe you're right." Jon closes his eyes and lets Tormund's breathing soothe him.

"I'm so happy you're here," he whispers in Jon's ear.

Jon nods in agreement. "Me too, Tor. I don't want to go anywhere else."

"What about to sleep?"

"Rather do that together too."

"Me and all." They meet each other's eyes, dark and light. "Good night, Tormund murmurs.

"Good night," Jon smiles. Settling with his cheek against Tormund's shoulder, Ghost sprawled against his back, sleep comes quickly.


	5. Chapter 5

Waking with Tormund is like waking wrapped in a fur coat. Jon is grateful for it. He's enveloped in soft skin, with a beard tickling the back of his neck. Ghost is against his front and he's just as warm and furry. It's completely irresistible. Unfortunately, he knows they both need to get up - Tormund to get back to the farm, Jon if he wants to stay with him. He squirms in Tormund's arms.

"Tor," he whispers urgently.

"Mm?"

"Don't we have to go?"

"I don't want to move," Tormund grumbles.

"Me neither but -"

"Shhh," Tormund leans to kiss the side of his neck gently.

Jon subsides under the touch. It's in his best interest not to argue, and he trusts Tormund to be responsible. Almost ridiculously so, in fact.

"I can hear you fretting, soldier," Tormund whispers, one big hand sliding up Jon's stomach.

"I can't help it," Jon sighs.

"Let me help you."

"Okay," Jon whispers. He bites his lip as Tormund kisses down to the junction of his shoulder. He just wants to hold back an embarrassing moan. But Tormund makes it difficult, stroking and kissing, fully enveloping Jon in his arms.

Jon leans into him, breath quickening. He can feel that Tormund is affected by this, pressed up against his back. It's making his stomach go tight and swooping. He curls their fingers together helplessly, whining when Tormund's teeth sink in just slightly.

"Tor," he breathes.

"Mmm?" he hums. This isn't getting up and ready at all.

"Tor, we need to shower," Jon says weakly.

"In a minute."

"What about your chores?"

"Two minutes," he rumbles. His hand slides low under the covers, skimming down Jon's bare flank. "See?" He wraps his hand around Jon's cock, gently stroking. "You don't want to get up either."

"Fuck," is all Jon can say, bucking up into his hand. He circles his hips, trying to keep contact with as much of Tormund as he can.

"That's it," Tormund purrs, "good and ready for me."

Jon pants. He's ready, but for what? He feels like he knows - like he could be - but maybe it's too soon. It doesn't mean he doesn't feel the need creeping through him; just Tormund's hardness riding against the back of his thighs is making him harder. He gasps. "I'm - not sure if I -"

"Mm? Tell me." Tormund kisses his shoulder gently.

"If I'm ready, but I - I want -"

"Ready for what, Jon?" He chuckles. "Probably not the best time for anything adventurous, just woke up." He shushes Jon gently. "Just let me make you feel good."

Jon nods, blushing hard. "I wasn't _accusing_ -"

"I know, boy, I know."

He strokes him again, long and easy. His hips roll gently and Jon gasps when Tormund cups the column of his throat.

"That's right," he murmurs. He accepts Jon's head back against his shoulder; tips their cheeks together with a pleased rumble and strokes him faster, the pass of his hand slickening.

"Is it good - for you?" Jon gasps.

"Watching you fuck my hand?" He slows his movements and lets Jon buck forward a few times to hone the point. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely."

Jon whimpers. "Yeah."

"Trust me, pretty little crow. This is enough for me."

"Good," Jon breathes, arching back into him. He groans when his hand picks up speed again. Tormund touches him even better than he touches himself. like all he cares about is making Jon feel good. And he is, overwhelmingly so. He clutches his hand tighter. Tormund's lips find the side of his neck. "Fuck," Jon whimpers again.

He can feel the clenching wave building in his groin. Two minutes - not a bad estimation. He thinks he can hold out, but - for what? Tormund wants this. Jon wants it too.

He bucks and gasps as it starts. Tormund's arms hold him tight. He's whispering to him, telling him how good he is, and it makes Jon's chest bloom with heat. Then he can't hear anything but the roar in his ears; the nothingness of bliss. It makes him feel weightless and Tormund kisses his cheek gently.

"That's it, baby."

"Fucking hell," Jon wheezes. He can't catch his breath. He can hear Tormund chuckling behind him, fond and warm.

"Told you, two minutes."

"You're a man of your word," Jon rasps.

He doesn't even sound out of breath. "That I am. Why don't you go clean up now, little crow?"

"No-!" Jon looks at him, horrified. "What about you?"

"I can wait."

"But I want to-!"

"Later," Tormund soothes.

"But your girls-" Jon complains. "You can't- they'll think I'm..."

"They will try very hard to not think about it, as they do everything I do."

Jon whines, unconvinced, and Tormund kisses the back of his neck.

"I need to get up now, but I'll take my time with you later. Aye?"

"Aye," Jon grumbles. He feels absolutely feeble at the thought. But he forces himself to stir, because he wants to help with the morning feeding.

Tormund gently coaxes him along, seeming very cheerful, all told. Not that that's unusual, Jon thinks he'd be cheerful at any time. He's embarrassed but grateful to be with him, overall.

Barely twenty minutes later, Tormund herds Jon and Ghost out into the quiet dawn, still mostly dark. It's a matter of minutes to his farm, and then they're pulling into the farmyard and Jon's stomach flips.

"I'm nervous," he admits quietly.

"Don't be, love. Don't be. We're all in this together."

"Yeah but - they're your _children_."

"Aye, and so they've watched me be alone for years. Jon. Please don't fret."

That gives Jon pause, because the way Tormund says that - this is _important_ to him. This casual attitude is all just a smoke screen. He's invested.

Jon is too. He didn't know how much until he was forced to realize, and it makes his chest tight.

So does the sight of two wild red heads appearing in the lit barn door. He hangs back, but Ghost doesn't, he wuffs and rushes across the gravel. Immediately, the girls are sidetracked.

"Munda, Dora, where are your manners?" Tormund calls over.

"In our beds," the taller of the two girls carols back, "where we ought to be!"

"Farm beds have farm chores," he says as if he's said it a million times.

"We're _guests_!" calls the shorter one, one side of the wild hair shaved down to strawberry blonde stubble.

"Keep telling yourself that, Munda."

Both their indignant noises seem to be rather paled by the fact they're still fussing Ghost, who looks about ready to explode with a mixture of happiness and nerves.

"Girls," Tormund finally says, "Come meet Jon." He glances at him, laughing at Jon's undeniable shyness.

Both sets of eyes that fix on him are just as shockingly blue as Tormund's. "Uh - nice to meet you," he says, somewhat feebly.

"You're Da's new boyfriend?" the eldest says.

Jon looks at Tormund, who seems completely unfazed by the statement. "Uh, aye, I'm - yep." He leans forward to shake her hand as she approaches.

"Dora," she tells him. "And you're Jon."

"Last time I checked." He turns to the shorter - Munda, he thinks - and shakes her hand in turn. She gives him a considering look.

"He's short," she says to Tormund, with the same brisk honesty as everyone else in Tormund's family, "pretty though." Jon can feel the blush forming.

"And, best of all," Tormund says, conspiratorially, "he has fucking _ears_. Go on with you."

She looks unbothered by it, though her sister bites her lip. "Are you helping out, Jon?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm here to help out." He glances at Tormund, who just sighs helplessly.

"He's doing whatever he feels like."

"I feel like helping."

"See?" Munda says to Tormund. "He _feels_ like helping."

"Doesn't mean you get to feel like not helping," Tormund tells her.

She turns her bright gaze on Jon, shrugging dramatically. "And here we thought he just wanted to see us."

"You certainly are a sight." Tormund scrubs over her shaven hair with a palm.

"God, like you haven't had all sorts going on with yours."

"I think it looks cool," Jon chimes in, which makes both the girls explode with laughter.

"See? The Southerner likes it."

"He's got questionable taste," Tormund reasons.

"Clearly," Munda snorts.

"I think I'm offended."

"No you're not." Dora again. "The Southerner can come with me to feed the cows."

"You can call him Jon, and remember your good words," Tormund says meaningfully.

"Come on, Jon," she says obediently.

With a faintly nervous look back at Tormund, Jon goes.

Dora is the quieter one, it seems. She's still half a head taller than Jon, lean and well built, with thick concentrations of bright freckles all over her skin. Failing any other reasonable conversational opening, he asks her what she likes to do for fun. She gives him a mildly amused look.

"I like video games," she muses, "and drinking."

"Sounds familiar."

"Oh yeah? You and my da been playing video games?" The way she says it makes Jon's ears immediately burn.

"Not too much," Jon mutters. He's mortified enough that he stops trying to make small talk, just taking the bale she hands him and starting to spread the straw into the troughs.

"I love your puppy," she says finally.

"Thanks, me too. Funny story, really. Maybe your dad already told you."

"Aye, he did. Hell of a thing."

"Tormund came to my rescue. He seems to all the time."

She smiles at that. "He's good at that."

"Yeah," Jon murmurs. "He is."

She gives him a knowing grin. "So why're you helping out on the farm? He acts like he needs it but he has plenty of farmhands."

Jon thinks about his answer, and admits with a self-conscious laugh, "I think he's the one doing me the favour, to be honest."

"Oh yeah?" She tips a few more bales of hay for the cows.

"Keeping me occupied."

"Are you with the Watch?" she asks.

"Yeah, I - sort of taking a bit of a break right now, though."

She nods, thoughtfully. "Da could use some company. Other than the cousins, of course."

"So could I. I only moved here a few months ago - we've been uh, pretty much inseparable since we met."

She snorts gently. "Is that what the kids are calling it these days?"

"No, I mean it."

Dora glances at him, then smiles. "I know. He hasn't shut his mouth about you since you knocked over those bloody apples."

"That's embarrassing," Jon laughs.

"He seemed very pleased you dropped to your knees the second you saw him," she snorts.

"Dora," Jon chokes out.

"What? He did." She winks, looking incredibly like her father. Jon's entire face glows; he tries to concentrate on what he's doing. God, he wishes Tormund would come in here.

Ghost has appeared though, tail wagging. Jon goes to scoop him up. "Getting too big for this," he tells him, laughing when he gets a lick about the chops for his trouble.

"That's not true," Dora laughs.

"I'll probably still be doing this when he's taller than me," Jon agrees.

"Good luck picking him up."

Jon looks at Ghost, whose tail whaps excitedly against Jon's arm. "Yeah, I see your point."

"He's so cute," Dora beams softly. She glances back at the cows. "We're pretty much done here. What else has Da showed you?"

"Uh - I feed the hens," Jon says, feeling like a child.

"His favorite ladies," Dora says.

"Aye," Jon chuckles, "he says there's one that looks like me."

Dora screeches with laughter. "He's a real romantic. I bet I know which one it is."

"Gods, it's so embarrassing," Jon mutters.

"What, dating my dad? You just wait, Jon Snow."

He knows she's right.

He sets Ghost down and follows her out to the yard and the chickens flurry excitedly to see them. Jon scoops grain from the covered tub by the hen house and starts to scatter it.

"Ah, you are learning."

"I actually do have enough brain cells to feed hens, contrary to popular belief, but thanks," Jon says waspishly - and then sighs at himself for rising.

Dora looks at him curiously. "All right," she says, "good to know."

Then Jon hears Tormund from inside the sheep barn. He's pushing the doors wide, letting them out to graze. Jon just watches him for a moment. He feels that warmth again in the pit of his stomach, the warmth of knowing he cares. Of his own caring and the way it twists together into something even stronger.

He bites his lip on a long sigh, hardly noticing when one of the hens hops up onto the lip of the bucket he's holding and starts to peck happily at the grain. He sees Dora wander off and call for Munda, the two of them starting off toward the direction of the cattle sheds. Jon watches Tormund approach with a smile in his eyes.

"How was that?" he asks, shooing the hen absently off the bucket.

"All right?"

"You're lucky."

"Young one is the tough one?" Jon asks, more than familiar with sibling dynamics.

"She certainly is."

"She's probably grilling Dora about me."

"I imagine the same could be said of Munda." Tormund throws a gentle arm around Jon. Jon leans in and up, asking for a kiss. He gets it, happily. Tormund twines a finger into his curls. "Want a cup of tea?" he asks.

Jon has the feeling he always sounds like he's aiming for seduction, except for the fact that Jon can still see two red heads around the corner of the farmyard. "Aye, all right."

He's not disappointed. He's not. It's nice to be alone in the kitchen. Tormund keeps his arm around him whenever his task permits and Jon's skin fizzes where he touches. Ghost hovers about their ankles, pawing for scraps. It's as nice as ever, except he gets a kiss at the end of it.

"Thanks," he whispers, leaning against the counter with his cup in his hands. "You doing okay?"

"I'm so happy," Tormund tells him.

As ever, his honesty floors Jon. He bites his lip hard, the force of his smile making his cheeks hurt. "So am I."

"Good. D'ye mind spending the day here with me an' the girls? I can take you back if -"

"No, no, I want to." He smiles again, holding eye contact. Tormund squeezes him close again and kisses his forehead.

"Good," he says again.

They stay close for a few moments. Jon simply breathes in a few times.

"Okay?" Tormund checks.

"This helps me," he replies.

"Tea? Cuddles?"

"Those. And breath exercises." He briefly remembers learning them with Jaime and smiles. How ridiculous he'd felt.

"You'll have to teach me some."

"I will if you want."

"Aye." Tormund rubs his shoulders briskly. He peers down into Jon's face. "I want to know how to help you."

"You do help me. I'm fine!" Jon smiles but he knows he sounds defensive.

"Just in case," Tormund soothes. He strokes Jon's hair again fondly. "I want to touch you again," he whispers.

The words make Jon blush, unbidden. He smiles. "It's my turn."

"Guess it is." Tormund sounds mildly disgruntled.

"I'm that bad?" Jon laughs.

"No!" Tormund swats him lightly. "I just don't like to take turns."

"Why not?" Tucking his hands experimentally into Tormund's jean pockets feels like a very good decision.

"Typical eldest, I suppose."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't like to take turns. The younger ones learn to share sooner."

"I'm in the middle," Jon shrugs, "I got shared with." Tormund tips his chin up to kiss him again. "But I like sharing," Jon whispers, "just for the record. And taking turns."

He watches it cross Tormund's face as a blush. It's entirely charming; a warming pink creeping up his cheeks. Jon can tell it doesn't happen much. His heart feels like it's grown three times in a minute.

He flexes his fingers in Tormund's pockets. In answer, Tormund cups his face in his hands gently, gazing down.

"I can see I'm gonna have to teach you how to be selfish, Jon Snow." He smiles as he says it.

"I might need a lot of practise," Jon plays along.

"I'm there for that."

"And you, preaching selfishness."

"You're an exception."

Jon's stomach flutters again, and he winds his arms tighter around Tormund's waist. "Good." He accepts another long kiss. Then he hears cackling from the door.

Tormund's hand seems almost protective when he cups Jon's cheek and turns to the girls. "Out," he says, a little sharply.

"S'our kitchen too."

When he raises his eyebrows, though, Munda nudges her sister and they make their way through to the living room. Tormund kisses him again.

"Are they always like this?" Jon asks, faintly amused.

"All their lives." Tormund squeezes him. "It's a good thing, mostly."

"It's very...you."

"Yes, I suppose that's true." He grins, eyes showing fondness.

Face burning, Jon just sighs and finally steps back. He misses the contact right away.

"Breakfast," Tormund says, "and then we'll crack on." He goes to call through to the girls about what they want to eat, and Jon hangs back to let them exchange a few soft words - probably Tormund warning them off teasing. That makes him feel simultaneously awful and grateful.

He starts to set the table for four. This could be a frequent occurrence, he realises, sitting at the table with Tormund's family. He hasn't had the opportunity much lately, but smiles at the memory of dinner with his own family from just days ago. He suddenly feels incredibly lucky, despite the longing he always felt as a boy. Now he knows what an embarrassment of riches he's had the privilege of. He's been running away for a long time. It's time to stop.

When Tormund comes back into the kitchen, Jon snags his hand and pulls him into another quick but crushing hold, but Tormund doesn't look startled for longer than a second. He squeezes Jon back gently.

"Good lad," he murmurs. "Start a new pot of tea for the girls?"

"Yeah." Jon moves to do it gratefully.

The girls - both of them - are pleasant when they come in, and Jon feels himself relaxing as he listens to them banter with their father. They both jump in to help cook, and it's amusing to see the resemblance despite the fact that they apparently don't live here very much. Jon will have to ask about that arrangement sometime. Not that it matters to him, he's just curious, especially since Munda insists she's a guest. He can ask another time, he thinks.

For now, he helps bring food to the table. The girls argue over bacon, who has more eggs, and who has to get up to fetch the ketchup. Jon just smiles to himself at the familiarity of it - and then at the newness of Tormund's knee bumping against his beneath the table. At least, the newness of it being intentional. Tormund, Jon realises, has always been demonstrative of his affections. He wonders what he'll be like when he's not trying to hide it. He finds himself craving it.

He reaches out bravely and squeezes Tormund's knee under the table, just briefly. Tormund flashes him a smile in return.

After breakfast, Jon dutifully washes up while Dora and Munda bargain with Tormund about what time they'll be home by if they go into the local town for drinks with school friends tonight. Tormund caves fairly easily, and Jon thinks he knows why. He pretends not to think about it as Tormund drives them out to one of the fields - the wall at the perimeter is crumbling and the tractor bucket is host to a skip of stackable new slabs. It's harder work than feeding, but Tormund won't let Jon lift anything too heavy.

Jon takes breaks when he feels himself straining anyway, stopping either to fuss Ghost or watch Tormund's biceps straining his shirt as he hefts rock. More of the latter, really.

Eventually, he gets caught. Not, unfortunately, by Tormund. Ghost yips to alert him to company and it's Munda, eyes unholy bright.

"Oh - hello," Jon says, not entirely sure where she came from.

"Caught ye," she grins. He shifts, looking away sheepishly. "Not good at teasing, are you?" she says with a chuckle.

"Not much good, no."

"Did you get teased too much, or not enough?"

"The first one, I'm afraid."

"Aw, bairn." She slaps his shoulder as she walks past, making a beeline for Tormund. "Oi dad, your boyfriend ain't half smitten."

He's still processing being babied by a teenager.

"Probably considering unsmittening himself now he's met you," Tormund grunts, "What is it, love?"

"We're finished weeding the kitchen garden, and someone is here about some sheep."

"Oh, fuck, I forgot about that." He puts an arm around Jon's waist, kissing his temple. "Break time. Want to come pick out some sheep?"

Still tingling at the novelty, Jon nods without much thought on the matter - he just wants to be where Tormund is. Munda still looks amused, but offers him a ride in the quad.

Jon accepts; she drives more slowly than Tormund, as it happens, and Jon doesn't mind - it's less of a problem to hold onto Ghost that way. She chats about sheep on the way back. Apparently there are different kinds. Jon had no idea.

"Do you live on a farm with your mum, too?" he asks carefully.

"No, no. Ma's a seamstress, we live at Hardhome. Dad used to live there too, before the grandies left him the farm."

"Your mum didn't want to come with?" he asks, feeling ridiculous asking a teenager but unable to help himself.

"Ha, no." She shakes her wild hair back from her face as they rumble downhill. "There's no need to worry, Jon Snow. We've never known them together, they've not been together since - I don't know, I was knee high to a grasshopper."

He feels his cheeks heat. "Suppose it's embarrassing I'm even asking."

"Naw, it's cute." She gives him a grin. "He's never actually talked about any of his other partners before, so I think you can consider yourself a serious contender."

Jon feels passing strange being called a partner - even more so than a boyfriend. "Thanks," he mutters.

She grins. "You're so welcome, Jon Snow."

They grin at one another, actually, because Jon can't help it. She's inherited that from her da. "You don't get down often," he comments, without judgment.

"We're both in school," Munda explains.

"Ah, right." Jon feels very faintly relieved, but doesn't let it show.

"Da gives us work for the summer usually, if we want it."

"Here I thought he was using you for free labour," Jon jokes.

"No, that's just you," she laughs.

"He's given me more than enough help in return."

"Aye, yeah," she grins, petting Ghost. She pulls the quad over when they get to the yard. "May we take the pup while you and Da go look at sheep?"

"Of course you can." He strokes Ghost's ears and nods to Dora as he climbs down to go to Tormund. He parks the tractor nearby and Jon sees him kiss Munda's forehead gently before they climb down.

He's so sweet. Jon sighs. "So, sheep?" he asks, when Tormund makes a mutual beeline.

"Aye, young uns."

"You need new ones?"

"It's good to bring in new blood now and again, aye."

"I've heard that."

Tormund grins. "Have ye now?"

"I have." Jon can't help but grin whenever Tormund even looks at him. He reaches out to clasp their hands together.

Tormund kisses the back of his knuckles. "Come on. These fucking sheep won't buy themselves."

After the sheep farmer leaves, Tormund feeds them all dinner and then hands over a set of truck keys to Dora.

"Do not drive after a drink," he warns her, "if you want a drink, get a cab, take my card, please let me know if you're going to be late."

"Yes, Da," they both chorus, only a bit sarcastically.

Jon hangs back as he walks them out to the car. He spends a few minutes drying dishes and the kitchen is practically spotless when Tormund comes back.

"Wow, is this my house?" Tormund jokes.

"Shut up," Jon laughs. "It's always neat in here unless you're cooking."

"My mother was a messy cook too."

"Yeah?" Jon says, inviting more information.

"Aye, yeah. Good though. She used to host great big family dinners."

"This was her family's farm?"

"No, it was my father's."

Jon nods. "How long have they been gone?"

"Years, now, love. My mother passed away ten years ago, my father the year after."

Jon nods. "My condolences," he murmurs.

"What about you?" Tormund asks. "You never mention them."

"My father's been gone for years," Jon murmurs. "Since I went into the Watch. My stepmother, more… ah. Recently."

"She didn't like you," Tormund surmises.

"Not in the least."

Tormund makes a noise of disapproval at that, opening the fridge up for beer. "Idiot."

"She was a good woman," Jon says softly.

"Not that good if she wasn't good to you."

"She could have made a lot bigger fuss than she did."

"About what? Her stepkid? Are all your brothers and sisters hers?"

"Yeah," Jon shrugs. "I was illegitimate," he tells Tormund.

"I know that. So are both of mine, if there even is such a thing."

"Where I'm from, it's a thing."

"It's horse shit," Tormund shrugs. Then he laughs. "And I would know."

Jon huffs softly, but he's smiling. "Tor," he says. "Come here." With a slight swagger, Tormund does, and Jon loops his arms around his waist. "I'm glad I'm here now."

"I'm glad you're here now, too." Tormund wraps him up close, and leans down to kiss him soundly. His fingers bracket Jon's skull gently, jostling his small bun. He always makes him feel so completely enveloped and held.

Jon loves it. Loves it even more when Tormund bumps him up gently onto the kitchen table to get between his knees.

Their mouths meet again, just lazily. Jon can't stop smiling. He's discovered kissing Tormund and never wants to stop. He thinks he might be laughing at him but it doesn't matter in the least. He kisses him with more intent, tasting his warmth, shivering at the press of him.

He's so broad like this, and warm, and beautiful. Generous. Most of all that. "Tormund," Jon says quietly, "is it my turn now?"

Tormund laughs. "You've been waiting so patiently."

"I think so and all." He takes a breath. "And you've been extremely patient. All day."

Tormund grins at him, scruffing gently at the stubble on Jon's jaw with his fingers. "Does that mean I get a reward?"

"Yes, Tormund, you absolutely do."

"That's what I like to hear." His hands smooth up and down Jon's sides. "Pretty little crow," he murmurs, a familiar mantra. "Don't fly away," he adds this time.

"You're one to talk."

"Oh, I think I'm firmly planted." Tormund urges Jon's hips a little closer to his.

"Glad to hear it." He teases his fingertips through Tormund's wild hair. His heart is pounding. Tormund feels good against him, and very patient. "C'n we go upstairs-?" Jon asks. He _likes_ being the one to make a move.

Tormund seems to like it too. He pulls Jon off the counter easily, kisses him deep as they start to stagger back toward the living room; the stairs beyond.

They manage not to fall, but a run in with an ottoman has them both sniggering, holding onto one another as they try to approach the stairs in a more sensible fashion. At the top, Tormund all but drags Jon into his room. He shuts the door and then presses Jon against it. It's overwhelmingly good to be pressed beneath his body; covered by his heat. Jon yanks at his work shirt, trying to remove it. That earns another scratchy laugh before Tormund pulls back to let him work it up and off. Jon is greedy to get his hands on all that ink again. Tormund's hair, his skin, everything. It's all worth touching.

Jon thinks of this morning; of feeling how right it was to be in Tormund's arms, how Tormund feels like home and safety and warmth. He wants that always. He wants to be that for him now.

"Take me to bed," he orders softly.

"Any fucking time," Tormund says gleefully, and he pulls him bodily to the bed. They both squirm to rid themselves of shirts and jeans, then Jon climbs on top of Tormund as they both settle on the covers, sighing at the warmth of his hands. Tormund rumbles happily at his weight. "I love you on top of me, Jon," he murmurs softly.

Jon makes a soft noise of agreement. "I like being on top of you. I like being under you, too."

"Good, because there's a whole lot more of me," Tormund laughs.

"Show me," Jon urges softly.

Tormund rolls them obligingly, nipping at his shoulder. The stifling intimacy of it feels raw and sudden, flaring hot through Jon's insides. He arches up, breath shaking out when Tormund unceremoniously hitches Jon's thighs around his waist and rocks down against him.

"Oh, god, that's so good," he whispers.

"Yeah?" Tormund rocks again, the press of his hard cock hot even through their shorts; suggestive, illustrative.

"I want to feel you inside," Jon tells him, a little desperately.

The noise Tormund makes has them both bridging closer. "Jon..."

"Please?"

"Are you sure?"

"_Please_," Jon begs, laughing all the same. He holds Tormund's bright gaze; nods again when Tormund bows his chin in one more silent question.

Tormund leans down to kiss him, soft, long, slow. He holds Jon tighter, moving once more against him. "Even this feels amazing, little one."

"Yeah," Jon nods fast, "yeah-"

"All right. Hold still for me now."

Jon nods fast, and Tormund strips his boxers off in a quick movement, kissing his hip. Jon has to grip the pillow above his head as Tormund bows his head. He takes Jon into his mouth with no more warning than that.

"Oh, fuck - Tor..."

Tormund just shapes him with his tongue, sucking lightly. He's so gentle, and thorough, as no-nonsense in this as everything. His skills are undeniable, not that Jon has an enormous frame of reference to draw from. But he makes Jon feel both wanted and safe, and so _good_. He shivers over and over with the sensations.

"Tor," he begs softly. He's doing really badly with taking his turn. He squirms at the thought, embarrassed, but Tormund just pets over his hips and makes another low, hungry noise. Jon has to pull him off so he won't go too far too soon. "It's supposed to my turn," he says hoarsely.

"It is your turn, you asked me for something and I'm going to give it to you."

"That's not how it works," Jon laughs.

"My house, my rules," Tormund teases. "Besides, you think I'm not going to enjoy it? You think I haven't spent every spare second since I met you thinking about either how much I like you, or how much I _want_ you? Want to be inside you?"

Jon whimpers at the simple truthfulness of it. "Okay," he whispers, "okay. Show me."

He doesn't need to add a please. Tormund simply moves, fetching his lube from a drawer. Jon watches him, that urgent, unfamiliar want surging in his belly. This warrior of a man, this gentle giant, he wants Jon.

He nudges him, guiding him onto his front, and Jon wants to be mortified but he trusts him too much. He does shiver, feeling exposed, but Tormund's warmth covers him; his hands, and his mouth.

Jon gasps and Tormund's lips curve into a smile against his shoulder. He presses in between Jon's cheeks with a slick finger, circling gently.

"Not messing around," Jon gasps weakly.

"Going nice and slow," Tormund rumbles. He's so warm and close, his chest against Jon's back, his other hand settling warm against his stomach. "Just a moment, love."

"Yeah, I'm okay," Jon whispers.

Tormund kisses his shoulders again. He starts to press in with a finger. He's gentle but not slow, and Jon reaches for his other hand and clutches faintly. He keeps breathing, slow as he can.

"All right," Tormund breathes, starting to kiss his throat. He twists his finger, seeking.

Jon's breath hitches. It feels so good. Strange, new - he thinks he'd let Tormund do anything he wanted. "Tormund," he pleads softly.

Tormund hums. "Okay, Jon?" He strokes his belly gently.

"I just want you."

"I know, I know. You can have me."

"Now?" Jon says hopefully.

"Very soon." He kisses down Jon's spine, twists his finger in deeper, gently. Jon can already feel how he can take more. He lifts his hips, nearly experimental. Tormund chuckles and teases at his rim with two. "Ever done this?" He asks Jon quietly.

"N-no," Jon breathes. He bites his lip when Tormund's little sound lights a fire in him too and pants out through his nose. "Tor... come on. Please." His voice goes high when Tormund presses in.

He keeps kissing Jon's skin as he murmurs and strokes deep with his fingers, palm up and motion gaining speed as Jon twitches back. "Good, open up for me now."

"Yes," Jon gasps, bracing his warms beneath himself. "Talk to me-?"

"Gods. All right, love, I'll talk. You feel so plush. I don't want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you."

"You're not hurting me, you never hurt me."

"I might, you're so tight, little one."

"Fuck," Jon gasps, "I'm fine, please, I want you to-"

Tormund whines a little. He applies more lube and that really does seem to make everything better. Jon can hear the breath he draws in before he finally removes his fingers. His weight as he settles down against Jon is caging, grounding.

Jon circles his hips gently, testing. He takes a deep breath as Tormund presses against him.

"Good," Tormund murmurs, "now exhale."

Jon does, trying to ignore Tormund's doctor voice. He's doing it on purpose, Jon's sure. As he exhales, Tormund grips him tight and starts to push home. His groan this time sounds more authentic. Jon braces himself, pushing back, startled by his own feelings for a moment. He feels breathless and greedy.

"Okay?"

"It's a lot," Jon gasps.

Tormund snorts, though his hands are gentle. "Damn right it is. But you like it?"

"Yeah, fuck," Jon reaches back over his shoulder to touch his hair.

Tormund kisses his wrist, hips easing him in with short, slow strokes. Jon makes a startled noise of pleasure at the weight; the stretch. Tormund noses in to kiss his neck. "Jon..." he sighs it quietly.

"Tor?"

"You're perfect."

Jon whimpers a bit to hear it, even more to feel it against his neck with the heat of another sigh. Tormund's body is so warm, so strong, and he's inside Jon - so Jon can feel it too. He arches back experimentally. It skitters warmly up his spine.

Tormund's hands slide to his hips and he seems to settle closer. "That's it."

"Yeah?" Jon pants.

"Aye, just like that." He's rocking too, meeting Jon slow, getting deeper with every motion. "Does it feel good?"

"Yeah... strange, good though."

He gasps in another breath. Tormund's hand slides down to his cock, cupping, stroking. He bites gently at the nape of Jon's neck. Jon is turned on but finds he isn't quite hard. He'll get there soon if Tormund keeps biting.

There's a moment of considering quiet behind him, and then Tormund nuzzles into his cheek. "Hang on, beautiful. I wanna try something else."

Jon squeaks. He lets Tormund move, rearranging carefully until Jon is kneeling over his lap. He's so gentle it makes Jon breathless, even when he bends his head to suck him for a few long strokes, fingers teasing at where he's still soft.

"Ride me now, love."

Breath shaking out, Jon kisses him hard, letting his own hand drop down to stroke Tormund as he opens the lube. They slick up again between them; nudge back into position.

This time, the slide is quicker. Jon gasps: this is better. And he can see Tormund, touch him, press up against his strength, feel his arms around him, and control how he moves.

"Tor," he gasps quietly.

"Lovely thing," Tormund murmurs. "You like this more."

"I like - being able to see you..."

"I do too."

He pulls Jon gently, urging him into a smooth, rolling pace. Their lips meet and slant together. So much skin, so much warmth and closeness - it's almost too much. Jon fumbles his arms around Tormund's neck, breath coming quicker. Tormund kisses down his throat, one hand skimming his stomach to find him hot and heavy between them.

"That's better," he purrs.

Jon whimpers. He can't speak, too occupied by the slide and press of Tormund inside him; his warm hands on him. He feels like he's begging with his entire body. It's so much. Especially once Tormund snaps his hips up at a certain angle.

"Fuck," Jon gasps, "Tor, yes-"

"That's good? Good."

"Yeah, s'good," Jon nods hard.

Tormund strokes his cock and does it again. He's got that grin again, pleased and heated. Jon tangles his hands through his hair. He presses their foreheads together and groans through clenched teeth, everything glowing with heat. He rocks down to meet Tormund's movements.

"Fuck, Jon," Tormund rumbles. "Gods, you're perfect."

"No, you," Jon says dumbly. It's all he can get out. He's never quite lost his words like this.

Tormund seems to sense it. He gives Jon another deep, slow kiss. "Good boy," he murmurs.

Jon moans into his mouth at the sound of it, at the shiver it sends up his spine. He moves a little faster on instinct and Tormund urges him on, swallows another of his embarrassing noises with a soft moan of his own.

Jon can't let go of his hair. He can't stop moving on his cock and pleading for more of his wandering hands with his arching body. Tormund understands exactly what he wants. He's gripping him, holding, hands splaying out to stroke along Jon's heated skin. He cups Jon's hips and drives him faster.

"That's right, baby."

The pet name pierces Jon; he's not sure he's ever been called that before. He makes a soft noise against Tormund's cheek.

"Shh, I've got you." Tormund nuzzles his throat. He's coaxing Jon in the most perfect rhythm, deep rocks that make him gasp and stutter.

"Yes," he groans. "More please."

"More?" Tormund kisses the exposed column of his throat. "Harder? Faster?"

"Faster," Jon whispers. He can't contain his moan when Tormund gives him what he wants. It's perfect. "Tor, oh gods-" He lets his head fall back.

The pace is coming more easily to him now, Tormund's hands supporting him, pleasure building steadily. Tormund kisses over his face and neck.

"The best thing I've ever seen, Jon," he whispers.

Jon can't keep his eyes open. He's overwhelmed by sensation, making soft noises that get steadily louder. He pushes his face into Tormund's neck. "Tor-"

"Let go, baby, let go." Slipping a hand between them, he takes Jon in hand, letting him squirm into the tight circle of his fingers on the heels of his quickening rocks. "Good," he soothes.

"Fuck," Jon pleads, "oh, _fuck_-"

Tormund keeps going, tender but quick. His voice is a low, constant murmur of encouragement. Jon pants wildly. His thighs are starting to tremble, the full, raw pressure of Tormund inside him straining his pleasure into something bigger; more complex. He's never come like this before. It feels like it comes from the very bottoms of his feet and washes up in a turning wave of static.

Tormund holds him steady. He doesn't take his eyes off Jon even as he shakes to pieces against him, murmurs his name, softly and repeatedly. Eventually, Jon regains enough coherency to make a noise in response. It's only a soft whimper, just enough to make Tormund chuckle, his low, fond rumble. He kisses Jon's throat.

"Fucking perfect," he praises.

"What about you, Tor?" Jon whispers slowly, voice thick.

"Whenever you're ready. You can move, if you need."

"No, keep going. Please."

"Sure?" He kisses him softly, already flexing cautiously.

Jon bites his own bottom lip, licking over the skin. He nods. It feels foreign and new and so much. But it feels like Tormund and that makes it perfect.

He kisses him again, endless, needy. Lets himself be moved. Tormund is being reassuringly selfish now. His low grunts make Jon's belly spark, even more so when he shifts Jon higher; holds him so he can jolt up faster. His arm muscles bunch and Jon groans. He can _feel_ it gathering in Tormund. He croons his name.

"Show me," Jon whispers, arching for him, "show me, Tor."

He can feel him start to shake. He's making soft, rough noises, hands so tight on Jon's hip and shoulder it aches. He folds around Jon as his body finally lets go, clutches him tight as he jerks into him, hard enough Jon already feels the twinges of tomorrow's ache.

Then he feels a rush of heat. It wrings another little hiss out of Jon; a throb of heat. He kisses Tormund's temple, under his ear, stroking his hair back slowly. Tormund presses their foreheads together.

"Tormund," Jon sighs softly, stroking his cheek. He stays pressed close. He doesn't want to ever move. Tormund's arms tighten, eventually, holding him steady while he slips out. Jon's thighs suddenly feel like jelly. He leans heavily against Tormund's chest.

"Hi, beautiful," Tormund whispers.

"Hi," Jon murmurs back. He rubs his cheek against Tormund's slowly. Their beards scratch.

"How was that?" Tormund grins.

"Gods, Tor. Good job with your turn," Jon laughs softly.

That seems to please Tormund immensely. He leans back, pulling Jon onto his chest. They settle comfortably, Tormund pulling the covers up. He's a mess, but he doesn't care. He doesn't want to move away. Tormund won't care, he knows that.

"Jon," he whispers, "talk to me."

"I love you," Jon tells him. He hears Tormund's breath catch. "I'm sorry," Jon mumbles. "But I do."

"No, fuck, don't say sorry." Jon frowns and peeks up at him. Tormund strokes his cheek, looking a little breathless. "Jon..."

"Yeah?"

"I knew I loved you that night you found Ghost."

"R-really? Why?"

"You just. Seemed lost. And so fucking - kind. I don't know. This fucking dead wolf and you call me. "

Jon bites his lip. "You seemed like the man for the job," he grins helplessly.

"The man for you?" Tormund asks.

"Well, I called again didn't I?"

"You did." Now he sounds smug.

Jon bites down on his grin. "And again. And again."

"It was a lot."

"You didn't like it?"

"I fucking loved it, Jon."

"Yeah?" He can't help but wheedle - he feels like he's missed half the signs.

"Aye."

"What did you love about it?"

"You're just so good, Jon."

"I'm not that good."

"Shut up, you are."

"I think you're _pretty_ fucking good."

"Of course I am." Tormund tugs him close.

"Of course you are." Their lips smudge and catch in a kiss. Jon feels unbelievably content. He almost mistrusts it, but he can't. Because he trusts Tormund with anything.

He feels his arms tighten around him. Tormund, it seems, is not taking any chances.

"That was- I've never felt anything like that," Jon says, shyly.

"You were amazing, baby."

Jon's ears burn. "Shut it."

"It's the truth."

Jon just sighs. He turns his face into Tormund's neck and settles. He feels amazing, that's what matters.

"You tired out, Jon Snow?"

"Yeah, sorry. I just -"

"What're you saying sorry for?"

"I - don't know," Jon smiles into Tormund's skin.

"I don't know either."

"It's just what I do. I'm.. .not sorry I'm tired, I'm happy to be tired because of that."

"You apologise a lot, that's true." Jon can't argue with that, and Tormund sighs at his silence. "You don't have to be sorry for anything." He strokes gently through Jon's hair and kisses his forehead. "It's been a long day. Sleep, Jon."

"Ghost -"

"Go see to him if you want, but I'll be awake for a bit yet - I need to check the girls get back in okay."

Jon smiles and blushes at the same time. "I want to stay up with you. We never got to drink our beers."

"Okay," Tormund murmurs. "That'd be great."

They beam at one another. "Want to know when I first started really liking you?" Jon whispers.

"Obviously, yes."

Jon grins at the thought. "When we first went to that pub - where was it, The Bear and the Maiden. You got drunk and sang karaoke."

Tormund laughs. "What about it?"

"You were awful," Jon laughs, "but you were having so much fun. You picked me up outside when we were leaving and you spun me around."

"Looking back on it, I shouldn't have done that," Tormund chuckles.

"No, I liked it. My family - we're not relaxed, or warm. We don't tease each other - too much has happened. But you're different."

"Sure am," Tormund grins as Jon picks his head up to look at him squarely. Tormund kisses him. "I love you, boy."

Jon sighs happily. "I know you do."

"So come have a beer, then."

"Right."

They separate and clean up in the bathroom down the hall, and when Jon is dressed again in sweats and one of Tormund's warm flannels, they go down to where Ghost is still splayed in front of the fire, looking larger and larger every day.

Tormund goes to the kitchen for fresh beers. They turn on the stereo, feed the fire again, and curl up on the couch under a pile of blankets.

Jon nestles his cheek against Tormund's shoulder, whispering. "So tell me about the girls."

Tormund snorts softly. "They're troublemakers, just like I was."

"'Was'?" Jon grins.

A shrug and another smile. "They come by it honestly. Munda is quieter. More likely to pick a fight with Dor."

"More likely to pick a fight, period."

"You're right."

"Dora takes on a lot of responsibility," Tormund adds. "Their mum works long hours."

"She certainly seemed the most uh, confident."

"She's bossy, you can say it."

"I wonder where she got that from."

Tormund pulls his hair gently. He's laughing low and pleased. "You like being bossed around."

"By you, definitely." He tips his head up and Tormund kisses him.

"That's good to know," he muses.

"Is it?"

"It is a bit, aye. I've got a vested interest in telling you what to do."

Jon cuddles closer. "How long will your girls stay, Tor?"

"Just tomorrow night now."

"They'll visit again soon?"

"I'm sure they will."

"Good. I think you like it when they're here."

"I love them like nothing on this earth," Tormund agrees, "as much as they ail me."

Jon reaches up to kiss his cheek. "I'm sure I will, too."

Tormund makes a small noise of recognition.

"I don't want to be like Cat," Jon murmurs.

Tormund strokes his hair. "Your stepmum?"

"Aye, yeah."

"Lovely boy," Tormund murmurs.

Jon laughs. "Come off it."

"Never, crow. Never."

Jon sighs into a smile. He knows.


	6. Chapter 6

The next morning, Jon shuffles to the bathroom in his boxers and the same plaid shirt and tries to shake off the yearning to get back in bed and convince Tormund to stay: he's sure he could be compelling if he tried. Tormund was pretty compelling just lying there, gloriously nude. He didn't even seem to care about the girls last night, just said muttered about them knowing better than to come in without knocking. Jon can't conceive of it, but then again, there's not much privacy in the watch.

Now, he brushes his teeth, and only starts slightly when Tormund comes into the bathroom- thankfully dressed- and reaches past him for his own toothbrush, warm against his back for a moment. Tormund isn't much more talkative than Jon is in the early morning. He still kisses Jon's cheek before he starts brushing, though.

Jon blushes and keeps his eyes on the sink. A glance in the mirror reveals Tormund has not limited himself so. It just makes Jon blush harder.

"This is a good look on you," he says indistinctly.

"Heh, thanks," he mumbles.

Tormund leans over to spit; candidly touches the small of Jon's back. Jon leans into it. He grins when Tormund has to move his toothbrush to rub their cheeks together. They're a little more distracted than Jon had planned for. He ducks away to rinse his mouth out, laughing.

"We've gotta get going."

"Aye, I know. Am I loaning you another shirt?"

"I can stay in this one if you want, it'll need washing anyway." Jon loves the way it feels.

Beside him, Tormund wraps a broad arm across his middle and squeezes gently. He keeps hold of Jon while he finishes brushing his teeth. "Jon," he murmurs happily.

"Yeah?" He turns his cheek to nose at him over his shoulder.

"Just happy you're here."

"I'm happy too." He thinks it's obvious. He bites his lip. "I was thinking - tonight, I could make dinner."

"Aye? For all of us?"

"Yeah. Give you a chance to be with the girls before they go."

Tormund squeezes his waist. "Is your cooking anything like your baking?"

"I figure I can't much mess up a roast dinner."

"I'm kidding, love."

"I know."

Tormund strokes his cheek. "I'd love for you to make us dinner."

"I will then." He smiles, then yelps when Tormund smacks his hip.

"Go get dressed."

"I'm goin', I'm goin'." He goes, but Tormund follows behind, seemingly unwilling to let Jon out of his sight for long. He hinders his progress in pulling on jeans when he brackets up behind him where he's stood and kisses the back of his neck. It's immensely distracting. "Tor," Jon complains faintly.

"I can't help it."

"I feel like you can." He can't keep from laughing as he says it, though that dies off a little at the feel of Tormund's body as he presses again his. He's definitely sore, but that wouldn't stop him for a moment.

But... the girls asleep in their beds would. He turns to kiss Tormund, and then fastens his jeans and starts to rummage for his sweatshirt. Tormund smiles and relents, and goes to wake the girls.

When he comes back, he rubs Jon's shoulders gently as he kisses his cheek. "After feeding, thought we'd leave the girls mucking and go down to the quarry. There's a fence down there."

"A fence," Jon repeats, voice holding a question.

"A fence, down, down there," Tormund clarifies.

"Oh!" More fence mending. Jon finds himself looking forward to it. But there's something sly in Tormund's grin that's even more intriguing. Jon smiles at him warily and heads downstairs to start coffee.

When breakfast is underway, Tormund at the helm, the girls both stagger into the kitchen and accept cups of coffee from Jon with heartfelt thanks. They don't look hungover, just bleary. Dora gives Jon a very Tormund-like smile as she goes to sit at the table. He tops up his own cup and sets the pot down where she can reach it.

"Thanks, Jon."

"No problem."

They sit down together, Tormund's pleasure visible from space. Jon feels content just looking at him. He just about sets aflame when Tormund takes his hand on the table as he eats toast one-handed. He doesn't pull away, though. It's too comfortable to be close to him.

The girls don't do much more than roll their eyes. Munda actually looks quite pleased too. Just as pleased as he could hope. Jon leans and kisses Tormund's shoulder before he gets up to get the next batch of toast.

They're quickly eating the rest of the food and Tormund is rattling off jobs that need doing to the girls. They move like a team, for all that they're not here much; they seem to eat and drink nearly in unison. Jon just likes watching how much they're all clearly related. He never even got that from his own siblings. He smiles as he starts running water for the dishes.

Dora comes to join him after a moment. "I'll dry," she says, taking up a cloth.

"Thanks," he murmurs.

She gives him a grin. "Anything for Da's new boytoy."

"You say it like I'm flavour of the month."

"Hardly," she snorts. "He never dates. "Unless you count buttering up the farmers market lady with tea and cakes to get a better stall."

"How much did he butter her?"

"Ey, enough of that," Tormund chimes in.

"A lot. But she's also about seventy-five," Munda puts in from the door, where she's jamming her feet into a pair boots.

"That's why he needed so much butter," Dora says, blonde brows shooting up.

"Dora!"

Munda and Jon both start to laugh. Tormund is as red as his hair. "I'm not an old lady fucker," he blurts, which just makes everyone laugh harder.

"Aw, Da, it's all right."

"Stalls are serious business," Jon puts in, "Do you want me to take a turn, get us an even bigger one?"

The girls lose it, and Tormund stares at him for a moment before he roars with laughter. "Boy, you would get us the entire fucking _market_," he says, coming to kiss Jon's forehead, cupping his cheeks, "but the other vendors might start getting ideas, and that's a lot of old ladies, Jon."

"Too many, you're right," Jon shrugs, tipping his face up so Tormund can kiss him properly.

"I think it's best you stick with me," Tormund says solemnly, "I don't want you to get worn out, even a bigger stall isn't worth it."

"S'a matter of health," Jon agrees, letting Tormund steer him toward the kitchen door.

"Absolutely. Got to look after my prize asset."

"I'm not your prize asset," Jon whispers as soon as they're out of the house and direct earshot of the girls.

Tormund booms with laughter as they walk across the yard. "Maybe it's a tie."

"Charming," Jon grins.

"You get what you see." Tormund's still laughing.

"I see something good."

"Ha! So do I."

They feed the animals together easily. Afterwards, Tormund loads up his truck with some fencing supplies. Ghost comes to find Jon, and excitedly bounces onto the truck bench beside him, standing over his lap to hang his head out the window. Laughing, Jon strokes his fur as Tormund drives them across the fields.

Even with the cooler weather closing in, the landscape is beautiful. Peaceful, even. Jon sighs in content and watches everything roll by. He loves this.

"Tor?" he murmurs.

"Aye? What is it?"

"I just - I'm just happy."

"That's the best thing I could possibly hear, love."

"You make me happy," Jon says, leaning into him on the wide truck bench, Ghost lolling happily across their laps now.

"Oh, same. Always the same."

The drive seems to be taking longer than it normally ought. Jon doesn't care. If Tormund is taking the scenic route, he's happy to go along. It means another ten minutes curled into his side.

When they reach the quarry, Tormund leans over to kiss the top of his head. Jon can't keep the grin off his face. It makes a hell of a change - honest work. Good company. He could get used to this.

He could get used to it even more when Tormund wraps arms around him and lifts him onto the lip of the truck bed, kissing him slowly. "Tor," he laughs.

"Jon." Mock seriousness in his voice.

"You can't kiss me all day."

"Of course I can." He sounds fond. Jon feels himself flushing.

"Did you drive us out here... just to kiss me all day?"

"No, we have to fix the fence. Eventually." He flashes Jon a big grin. "But that won't take too long."

Jon lets himself release air in a small gasp. "And you, a man of your word," he teases.

"Kiss me, Jon Snow."

Jon complies with a hum. He touches Tormund's hair gently. He can't help that it gets his blood up; that Tormund's hands on him elicit a reaction like nothing else ever has. He feels like a different person. He can feel Tormund getting closer between his knees.

Really, he has no problem with that. Nor with the way he seems to be getting lower down in the truckbed. They didn't have time to do anything like this this morning, and it's worryingly easy to cinch his knees either side of Tormund's torso and keep him close. It makes him feel… powerful. And primed for the press of Tormund against him; his wandering hands. They wander everywhere.

"Tor," Jon says, failing to keep it from sounding faintly scandalised and then laughing at himself.

"I won't if you don't want to," Tormund murmurs.

"Well, I do want you to."

Tormund immediately pushes his shirt up to get to more skin. He bows his head to suck softly at a mouthful. Jon sighs.

"Tor..." he strokes his hair.

His mouth is gentle but insistent. He starts to unfasten Jon's jeans with a hum.

Jon hums too. He's a little shivery in the cool morning air, but then Tormund bows his head and kisses his hips, and he's shot through with warmth. Teeth find his hipbones, one by one. "Tormund," he groans softly.

"Aye," Tormund whispers.

"I'm - are you sure there's no one -"

"I'm sure." He deftly folds the waistband of Jon's shorts down, looking extremely pleased with himself.

Jon shivers again. His eyes flutter closed as Tormund takes him into his mouth. Tormund seems to _love_ doing that. Not that Jon _minds_, but he's used to being the one that takes the knee. Maybe he'll actually let him today.

"Tor," he whispers, "I get my turn today, right?"

"Aye, baby."

"Promise-?" His breath hitches on another slow down sweep of Tormund's lips.

"Promise." He smooths one big hand up Jon's chest, under his shirt, warming him, tethering him. Then he takes him in his mouth.

Jon can only moan. The sensation is overwhelming. So much, so fast. Tormund doesn't seem too concerned about taking his time. Not that Jon is complaining; he can barely catch his breath.

"Tormund," he gasps, "fuck, you're good-"

Tormund sinks down deeper.

"Oh," Jon grips at the rim of the flatbed, fighting between watching him and looking away. He watches as his lips stretch. "Gods," he groans softly.

Every movement of Tormund's body fans the flames. He's so dedicated. He takes Jon in and sucks gently. It's so much, fire and satin. Jon focuses on the little things; the press of calloused fingertips, the brush of his beard. It's an exercise in self restraint more than anything. Tormund knows exactly what he's doing, long slow sucks and delicate swirls. Jon can't stop bleating his name. Luckily there's no one else to hear. And Tormund seems happy enough.

Jon knots his fingers into Tormund's hair, gasps softly when Tormund wraps his arms around his thighs and lifts Jon's hips slightly off the truck bed to suck him right to the base. Jon's stomach strains, and his fingers clutch. His jaw works against another moan.

"Fuck," he whispers. He doesn't think he can hold back long.

Tormund's strokes get firmer. Jon is so close suddenly.

"Tormund," he cries out again, gets a soft hum of acknowledgement. He doesn't pull away from Jon. But Jon _needs_ to kiss him. He tugs harder on the hair in his hand.

"What-?" Tormund sounds nearly annoyed until Jon pulls him up and kisses him hard. That, he leans eagerly in for.

"I miss you when you're down there," Jon says, feeling silly.

"Baby, it's all for you, though," Tormund points out.

"I know, I know, but-" He bites his bottom lip.

Tormund touches it gently with a thumb. "Doesn't anyone ever do anything to spoil you, little crow?"

"You do, all the time."

"Yeah, I do."

"Let me," Jon pleads softly, "I'm not good at lying back."

Tormund gives him a gentle stroke, but he doesn't stop Jon from reaching for his belt; unbuckling with a click. He coaxes him to stretch in the truck bed beside him.

"I want my turn now."

Tormund laughs. "Oh, I see." He makes an appreciative noise when Jon puts a hand down his jeans. It soon turns low and purring. He seems willing enough to let Jon take over. Slowly, Jon strokes him. He gives him slow kisses as he touches, finding a rhythm.

"Isn't this better than fencing?" Tormund grins.

Jon shushes him, pressing close. Tormund seems happy enough to be shushed. His powerful body strains into Jon's grip. When Jon shifts to go down, kissing the pale strip of his belly, Tormund bites his lip on a grin.

"Look good like this, Jon Snow."

"About to suck your cock?"

"Aye."

Jon grins. "Well, then." He licks his lips, then dips his head to lick slowly at the base of Tormund's cock, laying heavy and half-hard against his hip.

The taste...he craves it. Everything about it is so intimate, from the feel of Tormund against his tongue to the heat he can feel radiating off his body. Entirely warmed by it, Jon closes his eyes and sucks him more fully into his mouth.

He goes into a bit of a trance. He's finding his own limits, examining what gets the best response. There hasn't been a bad one yet. He sighs in content as Tormund is stroking over his cheek gently.

"Look like you're coming to like this," he rumbles.

Jon nods. 'Like' isn't quite the word he'd use. Crave it. Need it, maybe. He sighs at the thought and presses a fraction deeper, testing the limits of his own throat slowly, so slowly, Tormund's taste overwhelming him. He groans softly, anchoring his hands on his inner thighs.

Tormund arches gently. He cups the top of Jon's head gently. "Little one, that's good like that."

He keeps it up, warm with the assurance. He wants to be good. When Tormund holds his head gently, rocking his hips, Jon moans, clutching his hips tighter. He needs him to keep going. He tries to tell him with his eyes; his mouth.

Tormund croons. "That's it, gorgeous."

Jon moans back. He can't get over how he tastes. Warm and clean and sharp. So big he makes Jon's jaw ache. He has to add a circling hand, too, push Tormund to the top of his palate and suck at the head for a moment, tongue working. Jon can tell he's getting closer. He can taste it in the way he keeps pulsing fluid, bittersalt and tantalising. It eases the slide, even as he groans and tries to keep his hips still. The rhythm of it is suddenly even better than he thought, and he can feel Tormund twitching in the tunnel of his fingers, straining for release. He makes a soft sound in response.

"Jon, fuck, fuck," Tormund breathes.

Jon squeezes harder, tastes as Tormund starts to tense and finally flood. It's a lot, but he doesn't pull back. Instead, he swallows down as much as he can, clutching Tormund's thighs. He groans at the feel of it. Tormund is practically fisting his hair and Jon starts licking. But soon he's released, and Tormund pulls him up gently. Jon meets his eyes.

"I fucking love you, boy," Tormund mutters.

"Tor," Jon's heart leaps just to hear it. He kisses him deep, clutching at his shoulders.

Tormund bands him close with strong arms and Jon settles, entirely too content. He doesn't care in the slightest that they're in Tormund's truck bed. Or that it's a little chilly. He might if someone came upon them, but he thinks Tormund planned this all out.

"Jon," Tormund says softly, "you still haven't come."

"I know," he mumbles, tucking his face into Tormund's neck.

"Do you not want to?"

"Maybe," he whispers.

"Maybe?" Tormund strokes his hair back.

"I feel good," Jon whispers. "It's just...so -" He glances up at the blue sky. "I have a question for you."

"I'm listening."

"I'm thinking of leaving the watch," Jon murmurs, "permanently."

"I - wondered," Tormund replies softly.

Jon sighs, huddled against him. "But - I'm worried about having nothing to do."

"And the question?"

"Would- would it piss anyone off if I helped you out more, here-?"

"I'm the one who counts," Tormund says, gently.

"Well, yeah." Jon bites his lip.

"You want to work on the farm?"

Jon pauses. "Maybe it's too soon."

"Too soon for what, little one?"

"Me to be around all the time."

"I don't feel that way in the slightest."

"You might though, if I were."

Tormund shakes his head. "How can I convince you, Jon Snow?"

"Just - tell me what you think."

"I think that every second I'm not with you I'm thinking about when I'll see you next, if you must know," Tormund says softly. He touches Jon's chin. "We've seen each other near enough every day since you moved here."

Jon knows it's true. He's thrilled to know that it's true. "I love you," he whispers.

"Aye, and I do too." Tormund squeezes him. "Don't worry about it, Jon."

"Easier said than done." He smiles to show he doesn't mean it harshly. Tormund doesn't seem even remotely fazed. He looks knowing. Fond even. He skims his thumb gently under Jon's eye, watching him for a long moment.

"Now, do you want me to get you off, or shall we keep fretting back and forth, boy?"

Jon laughs quietly. "Take care of me, Tor."

He settles close, lips brushing and breaths rushing warm between as Tormund takes Jon in hand gently and strokes quick and sure. He doesn't slow down at all and it's a headlong rush back into desperation. Jon just craves him all the time. He can't hold back, and he's panting into Tormund's mouth inside a minute, thighs tensing.

"Come, Jon," Tormund rumbles.

It's easy to obey. He can feel himself starting to shake. Pleasure blooms up his spine like a lit fuse. He tips his head back and moans. He comes hard, deafening, back arched and his hands tight on Tormund.

"Fuck," he gasps, feeling his slick between Tormund's fingers as he keeps stroking. It's hard not to groan again; shudder back as the pleasure tilts into overwhelmed. But Tormund's hand slows, grip loosening as he gentles him.

Once again, their lips drift back together, kisses lazy and satisfied. Tormund pulls him close, regardless of the mess. "Gorgeous boy." He presses their foreheads together. After a moment, Jon starts to laugh softly. "What is it?"

"Cosy next to these fencing supplies."

"Shut it, you," Tormund says fondly.

"You really know how to set the mood."

"Aye, that I do. A beautiful spot out under the sun..."

"It is cold," Jon points out.

"I'll keep you warm."

"I know that." He smiles. Again.

"I sense you're telling me you want to get dressed," Tormund laughs.

"I wouldn't mind." Jon looks at him from under his lashes.

Another kiss, and Tormund helps him to get cleaned up and dressed, and they get back to the job at hand. They do it slowly, with many breaks to grin at one another.

*

Jon is hesitant to acknowledge just how good things seem to get over the following days. Tormund's daughters go back to their ma's, and the cousins seem to be around less too, ostensibly because of the work ebbing but more likely due to death threats from Tormund himself.

Jon's commanding officers accept his resignation with what seems to be a lack of surprise, though they warn it might be slow to go through. Meanwhile, Jon spends most nights with Tormund, sprawled on the couch with Ghost warm at their feet or curled against his chest in bed.

They get up with the sun, sure, but Tormund isn't at all hesitant to pull him upstairs for an early night. Even tonight, when they're looking at a tiny lie-in because the cousins are doing the early so that Tormund can go to the market tomorrow morning.

Jon smiles with nervous excitement whenever he thinks of it. He feels almost hyper with it, even when he's exhausted from the work of the day. Tormund has kindly not mentioned it until now, when they're curled against one another in bed.

"The old biddies will have so much to say," he laughs softly.

"I think they might have already known this was coming," Tormund chuckles.

"Well. They haven't had a chance to say it yet."

"Don't worry, I'll fend them off from pinching your cheeks too much."

Jon snorts. "You'll just pinch me yourself."

"Absolutely I will. And it won't be just here." He chucks at his cheeks illustratively.

Jon squirms away, but not too far. "Don't be a dick," he snorts.

"You like it when I'm a dick."

"I suppose I do." He laughs and kisses Tormund's cheek. They curl closer, the mutual agreement of sleep silent between them.

It's easy for Jon to fall asleep these days.

Much harder, he finds the next morning, to wake up. That's pretty normal too. They only get slightly distracted before they manage to get out of bed.

They dress quietly together and go to eat before loading the truck. Ghost hangs out of the window on the drive to the market, tongue lolling. His tail whaps rhythmically against Jon's chest.

"Do you think he'll scare people when he's older?" Jon muses.

"Maybe," Tormund replies. "Probably not."

"He's pretty intimidating. I think it's the eyes."

"Maybe."

At the market, the sun is finally up, still touching the skyline pink as they start to set up their stall. Tormund calls greetings to his stall neighbors, helping one of the biddies with a few heavy crates. Jon helps where he can, too, though mostly he is just the subject of several curious glances.

He tells himself they're because of Ghost. But then Tormund calls him over from where he's talking to another stall owner. "Jon! Someone I want you to meet!" So he goes, leaning a little into Tormund. He turns a bit pink when he's enveloped in a half hug. The woman he's with is someone Jon has met before - she runs the candle stall.

"This is Karsi," Tormund says, "best honey in Westeros."

"I recognize you," she smiles.

"And I you. I bought my sisters some of your candles - big hit."

"Good, glad to hear it."

"Jon's going to be around a bit more," Tormund interrupts gently, "so be nice to him if you see him looking lost."

"Naturally," she winks.

Grinning helplessly, Jon just grips Tormund's jacket and looks up at him. They chat a while longer, about the changing weather and the approaching winter, but Jon struggles to tear his gaze away. He's going to be no use at all to customers at this rate.

Then again, he's not entirely convinced that's why he's really here. Maybe it's just for Tormund. And that's okay. He smiles at him at the thought and Tormund gives him a wink in response.

"Things must be new," Karsi comments, "he's still looking at you like you hung the moon."

Jon is pretty sure he always does.

"He's always looked at me like that," Tormund echoes cheerfully, "he's not too bright."

"Nice," Jon quips.

Karsi laughs. "Having second thoughts?"

"Unfortunately I'm too attached."

"A shame."

"Maybe." He gives Tormund a big grin. He looks supremely unbothered.

They set up, and gradually people start to arrive, milling amongst the aisles between tables, haggling and bickering. Chatting happily, too.

Jon himself waves when he spots Sam and Gilly. Sam seems visibly relieved to see him, and so Jon goes around to hug him briskly. The hug he receives in return is rib crushing.

"Where've you _been_?" Sam hisses in his ear.

"On leave," Jon sighs.

"You didn't think to text?"

"I - I'm sorry," Jon frowns at his boots.

"I've been worried about you," Sam whispers, "I just - didn't want to bother you..."

And Jon has been too busy in bed to think to call him. Or Jaime, for that matter.

"I should have called," he apologises softly.

Sam softens immediately, as expected. "As long as you're okay..." his eyes dart furtively to Tormund, over Jon's shoulder. "And you do... seem... okay."

"I'm okay," Jon blushes.

Sam blinks a few times, maybe awkwardly, before he whispers. "So you're, ah-?"

"Not just friends anymore," Jon whispers back. He nearly laughs at the way Sam's eyes shoot up into his hair.

"That's… good."

"I think so." Jon glances at Tormund over his shoulder, smiling. Then Sam motions Gilly over too. "Hey, Gilly." Jon leans to hug her, saying a soft hello to Little Sam, too.

"It's okay," she whispers. "He's just a worrier."

"Aye. I know. And I inspire concern as a general rule."

She frowns gently, rocking Little Sam. "But you're okay? Really?"

"Tormund is taking good care of me."

She smiles at him, and he looks from her to Sam. Both of them look so _fond_. It feels good to remember he has family here too. Even if they're their own little family now, they're still his.

At the thought, he puts his arms around Gilly and Sam again. "Thanks for everything, guys."

"Anything for you, Jon Snow," Sam tells him seriously. He squeezes him, and Sam's squeezes have at least approximately the power of Tormund's.

He 'oofs', and then laughs. "I really am sorry though."

"You don't have to be sorry. I'm happy for you."

"Me too," Gilly says. "But I'm a little sad - it looks like you won't need a dog sitter much anymore."

"You don't need an excuse to see her. Or me." Jon grins.

As he says it, Tormund walks over. "Samwell! Gilly!" Gilly waves.

"Hi Tormund," says Sam. "I'm hearing news from Jon here."

"It's not true, I did nothing wrong." He saunters over and slings an arm around Jon.

"Well, hearing news is a bit generous - I was intuiting. Jon was not telling me anything, actually," Sam says cheerfully.

"So surprising, that," Tormund drawls.

"Telling without telling, he was." Gilly chips in.

"Yes, that all sounds exactly like Jon."

"Talking never was his strong point," Sam agrees, but good-naturedly.

Jon just shakes his head and smiles. They're both right.

"You should come over for dinner tomorrow," Tormund suggests to them both. Sam lights up at that, and Jon feels a startling moment of surreality: maybe this is the start of him being _happy_.

Maybe this is all of them being happy. He really hopes so. He's positive that he could be happy here, even without the Watch. Especially without it.

With promises to come over tomorrow afternoon, Sam and Gilly move on, leaving Jon gazing at Tormund again, helplessly. He acknowledges privately that Tormund looks especially good in green. His hair is even more vibrant. As always, he catches Jon watching in a quiet moment, a few customers sent on their way with punnets of fresh produce.

"Doing all right?" he asks gently.

"Feel weirdly jealous of everyone here," Jon chuckles, despairing of himself. "But yeah. I'm okay."

"Don't worry, little crow, the most any of them are taking home are some vegetables. And you get me."

"I'm only kidding. I think." Jon steps under Tormund's beckoning arm. But he senses Tormund is pleased.

A sound kiss soon confirms his suspicions. "Nice work today, partner," Tormund grins.

"I weighed things," Jon murmurs against his mouth.

"And excellent weighing it was."

"I have many skills."

"I can't wait to see more of them in action," Tormund teases.

"It's amazing how you can flirt _and_ insult me simultaneously."

"Sweetheart, I'm one hundred percent serious."

"I'll let you off then," Jon relents.

"Get me off, you say?"

"As soon as we're not in public, aye."

Tormund laughs and kisses Jon's forehead. "I'll hold you to it."

Good, Jon thinks.

Eventually, the majority of the wares sold through, they start packing up the stall. They've discovered they work well together, these past weeks. Jon always knew they would, and he knows he doesn't have to take anyone's orders anymore. Unless, of course, he wants to. He eyes Tormund with an air of speculation.

"Yes Jon?" Tormund says, without looking up from counting potatoes onto the scales. It's like he knows.

With a shy blush warming his ears, Jon sidles close and murmurs against his cheek. "I was just thinking of an early night."

"Poor little crow, all worn out from cawing," Tormund teases softly.

"I'm not worn out," Jon promises softly, "but I'd like to be."

"Request noted." Tormund's eyes glow. He kisses Jon soundly, and they gather the last of their things.

Even when they return to the farm, there's more work to be done. Jon finds he likes it more and more. Working with his hands, side by side with someone he loves.... He stops for a moment where he's digging in the rows and rows of fussier vegetables Tormund grows, looking out at the skyline; distant clouds threatening a chilly night. They’ll have to put frost covers out.

It's so beautiful, even so. Dusky grey, patches of bruise lilac. Jon looks at Tormund and sighs.

"I still feel like I'm dreaming."

"Me too," Tormund replies. He comes to put an arm around Jon, nudging him close. Tormund always wants to be close. When Jon beams up at him, he beams back.

"It's a good dream."

"It really is."

Jon elbows his side gently. "Let's go inside."

"Aye, call the dog in."

Jon whistles promptly for Ghost, who appears like a shot from the underbrush. When they've cleaned up, they go into the house. Jon kicks off his boots in the mudroom and thinks longingly of a shower. "Gonna go up and get clean," he murmurs. He feels Tormund's attention click onto him immediately.

"Alone?" he asks innocently.

"Why, is it dangerous?" Jon grins.

"Could be. You ought to take a friend."

"Let me give Sam a call." He bites back a delighted grin at Tormund's expression. But when he pounces on him, he can't hold it back. He laughs as Tormund backs him up against the wall.

His arms are around him, hands grabbing and body warm. He hikes Jon up against the wall. Completely effortless, entirely too thrilling. Jon feels that first spike of excitement in his core as he laughs into their kiss. He twists his fingers into Tormund's hair.

"I suppose you're already here," he says, feigning resignation.

"You better believe it."

"Go on then. Lead the way." He bites his bottom lip as Tormund lets him slide down his body.

Slowly, they amble upstairs, leaving Ghost to sprawl on his bed. It's a novelty for Jon that he feels absolutely no rush. Tormund keeps kissing him, languid and soft and adoring as they step back slowly into the bathroom. It's big and old-fashioned and filled with things that smell like Tormund, earth and pine and fresh air. Jon finds himself sniffing bedding, borrowed shirts, his hair. He's obsessed with all the little pieces of Tormund he finds. Even more so with his great, solid warmth as he starts to gently disrobe Jon.

"Touch me, love," he murmurs as he does it.

He hardly needs encouragement. His hands slip under Tormund's shirt and one pushes up as the other wanders south. It hinders Tormund's progress, but he doesn't seem to care much. When Jon shoves his jeans down to palm over him through his shorts, he makes a low, pleased sound and crowds him against the far wall, arching close.

"Jon, that's nice."

"Aye," Jon smiles, cupping a whiskered cheek, craning up to kiss him deep as he teases along the length of his cock with his fingertips. "I've been meaning to do this since this morning, you know."

"Is that so?"

"You look really good in those jeans." He squeezes just so, rubbing his thumb gently against the growing damp patch at the head of Tormund's cock. "Nice and tight."

"Like you're one to talk, crow."

"Mm? How's that?"

"Those designer jeans of yours come in a can, I'm pretty sure."

He's getting rumbly and rough, voice dropping, body flexing as Jon rubs and strokes. It makes him think of how he sounded when he was inside Jon. Like his voice was coming from the depths of the earth. He's _stunning_. Jon is stunned by him, every time.

He kisses him urgently. "Tor - I want this..." he strokes him again illustratively.

"You want me to fuck you?" Tormund whispers.

It punches the breath out of Jon again and he nods fast.

"In here?"

"Wherever." He keeps his hand tight. Keeps Tormund close.

Tormund laughs breathlessly. "In here, then."

"Okay, okay." He lets Tormund kiss him all over his throat.

They pull off their remaining clothes distractedly and Jon turns on the water, shivering when Tormund runs a palm up his spine.

"Funny, having a pretty little thing around, y'know." He sounds musing; slightly teasing as ever.

"T-tell me?"

"Used to people who look like me. Big and rough and vain regardless. My girls are beautiful of course, but they aren't little like you."

"N-no," Jon stammers slightly.

Tormund kisses the side of his neck. "You're blushin'. Am I embarrassing you too much?"

"I like it," Jon mumbles.

The soft, pleased noise Tormund makes is more akin to a growl than anything else. He presses warm to Jon's back. "I have to go get some things if you want me to fuck you in the shower, little crow."

Jon nods in understanding, though he bites his lip to feel the warmth recede. He gets into the shower to replace it. The hot water does feel nice, though he still feels lonely. Tormund is barely a minute, though. He sounds out of breath.

"Did you run?" Jon laughs.

"Maybe so." He shoulders into Jon's space, kissing him hard and knocking him gently back against the tile all in a rush.

Jon makes a feeble noise of enjoyment. He wants him so much, he never really considered just how mutual it was. He shouldn't mistake Tormund's patience for a lack of want. He couldn't now, with Tormund's hands moving over his skin with indescribable hunger.

"My Jon," he murmurs. Jon has to clutch him; to press their foreheads together. Water mists around them. "My little crow," Tormund whispers.

"Tor," Jon begs softly.

"Tell me," Tor kisses under his chin.

"I need you so much, I -"

"You can have me."

"Now, Tormund. Don't make me wait."

"Do I ever?"

Tormund spins him around to face the tile. Then he kneels down behind him. Jon whines. "Tor," he pleads softly, but strong hands find his thighs.

Jon feels his thumbs in his flesh, his breath, and he shivers. When Tormund licks slowly between his cheeks, Jon cries out.

"Gods, that's -"

Tormund just makes another low noise. Jon moans too. Tormund is slipping wet fingertips inside him and holding Jon's belly to steady him. Jon moans again, feeling him press harder. His fingers are slick, stroking and teasing, one pressing down and stroking in a smooth, constant motion. It makes Jon's knees feel weak.

"Tormund," he gasps, floored as ever by his complete lack of preamble. He just… wants, and gives, and takes. Mostly, he gives. Jon grits his teeth and then calls his name again. He wants to be taken.

He feels Tormund's lips at his lower back; his beard tickling wet at his skin. "Baby, what is it?"

"I need you, please," Jon whispers.

"Now?" Tormund rumbles.

"Yes, yes, please." He pushes back eagerly, feels Tormund apply slick and settle himself behind him.

The first push makes him groan. He can see Tormund's knees bent behind his own; feel him bracing himself with his hands on Jon's hips as he sinks home. He doesn't pause, just fills him as he asked. His body shields Jon from the majority of the spray, and the slide of his cock is easy. He holds Jon's hips tightly in place.

This time, though gentle, he doesn't take it slow. He thrusts in with exactly the air of recklessness Jon is craving. Quick and relentless, the motion triggering a spark of fire in Jon's lower back that makes him moan in partial shock. He presses his cheek against the cool tile, arches back and lets himself be overwhelmed by the sensation of taking Tormund into his body; letting him move him and hold him and push deeper and deeper. He takes it all greedily.

It feels so good to be owned and wanted. If he said that first one to Tormund, he might protest. But then again, maybe not. He moans softly. "Tor... fuck. Gods, give me more," he sighs.

He feels his weight increase against his back; Tormund's cheek against his as he snaps his hips faster. He's being encompassed and he's finding he likes it very much. And Tormund pants in his ear like he likes it too. He's breathing Jon's name, soft and deep, like he's been craving this too.

Jon grasps at him, his hair and his skin, holding steady to feel him press ever deeper. Around them, the water hisses against the tile. The world outside this disappears. There is only Tormund and his outrageous warmth. His cock, filling Jon up. His voice in his ear. Jon didn't know his body could feel like this. It's a strange pleasure, nearly painful, so vulnerable it burns.

He tips his head back and cries out softly. One of Tormund's big warm hands smooths up his belly and he pulls him back onto his cock. Hard, fast, smooth. He whispers Jon's name and Jon reaches back to touch his skin. His spine arches. Tormund holds him tight.

"Good boy," he murmurs.

Jon shudders. "Say it again."

He feels Tormund shudder against him. "Good- good boy."

He whimpers. There's a strange certainty in his core: even without any external contact, he feels close. "You feel so good," he gasps.

"Not like you," Tormund whispers, "hot and tight and soft, Jon."

"Yours." The way Tormund jolts makes him cry out, pressed closer into his body.

"Mine."

Jon nods, over and over. "Yours, yours, yours..." it becomes a soft litany, straining with the ebb and flow of Jon's breath as Tormund renders him less and less coherent. But he keeps repeating it until it doesn't make any sense anymore. Until he's just making noise.

They both are, harsh breaths and sharp, wet slaps of skin. Tormund bites at his ear and grunts, "Can you come?"

"Don't know, don't stop-"

Tormund doesn't. His breaths are low moans, his hands nearly bruising on Jon. They plunge together toward whatever will happen. Jon can feel the strangest pressure building, a shocking, quiet tremble. It takes over his brain with a fizzing, white noise. He can't think of anything but the way Tormund's cock seems to feel just right to stoke it, between too much and not enough. His muscles go weak.

He cries out his name in a blur of other sounds and something hot twists in his gut. He feels a surge, and his whole body shakes as he spills on the tile wall with a near painful gasp.

Tormund groans behind him, but it just keeps coming, and he grips Jon's waist when his thighs shake. His lips brush over the backs of his shoulders.

"Tor-" Jon whines it, because it still feels like _so much_.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah, don't stop-"

"Won't -" He's snapping his hips ever faster, an urgency to them now.

Jon whimpers and pushes back. Another wave of sensation renders him breathless. He hopes Tormund feels it too. He thinks he's close- he can recognise the pattern of his breaths now, he thinks. Nothing else could sound so sweet. Jon tips his head back against his shoulder and softens into his body, letting him push deep and slow as his movements get staggered.

"I love you," he breathes.

"An' I you, my crow." His hips snap powerfully and he groans, movements becoming jagged and finally stalling in three harsh shoves of his hips. Jon can feel him come; feel the way he strains and surges. He leans heavily into Jon, half pins him to the wall, both of them panting.

"Gods," Jon mutters. He squeezes Tormund's hand on his hip.

Tormund kisses his neck again. "Fuck," he rumbles. "Ought to turn this into a bath, but the hot water won't last."

"I don't think I'll get up again if I sit down."

"Then I'll take you straight to bed," Tormund murmurs. He smiles as Jon twists to kiss him, reluctant to let him slip out of his body.

Eventually they pull apart enough to do a quick wash. Tormund is very gentle with Jon, like always, but his hands still feel possessive. Jon lets him towel his hair and tries not to float too obviously on the feeling. Though he thinks Tormund would like it, anyway. Then Tormund goes down to let Ghost out and kill the fire, and Jon waits for him to return with the day still whirling in his head; the market, the shower. They should get dinner. He's still holding a pair of sweatpants when Tormund comes back upstairs.

"Needn't bother with those, if you're worried about being cold," he quips.

"Can't walk around your house in the nude, can I?"

"Why on earth not?"

"I… dunno, I just can't."

"All right. Well, hurry up, let's stick a film on and get warm." Tormund hustles him into the bedroom.

When they settle in, Jon runs a hand up and down Tormund's bare chest, savouring his warmth. Tormund curls an arm around him and lets him while he finds a movie to watch. Maybe Jon is still orgasm drunk, because he can't stop touching him. "I've never felt like that before."

"Jon," Tormund sighs, sounding very satisfied.

"Don't be smug."

"Too late." Jon pinches him gently but Tormund only squeezes him tighter. "You're beautiful," he tells Jon softly.

Jon nuzzles under his chin. "So are you." He thinks he sounds smug too.

Tormund chuckles and settles on a crackly old film. "I put a pizza in the oven," he tells Jon. "We can eat in bed."

"Bad habits," Jon muses.

"It's not a bad habit, it's a treat."

Jon smiles, nosing at his cheek. "Treats, hm?"

"Do you know that word, Jon?"

"Only as it pertains to Ghost."

"Poor wee lordling."

"Not a real one, Tor."

"Your dad was a lord, was he not?"

"Aye, but I'm not a legitimate son."

"Bollocks to legitimate. You're a lord."

Jon snorts. "So are you in that case. Seems that being a lord is down to owning land and keeping things in line. You do that every day."

"That I do."

"So you're Lord Tormund, hm?"

"Nah," Tormund laughs. "I don't need anyone bowing to me."

"That's not what Dora says."

"Oh, we're listening to Dora now?"

"She's very clever, takes after you that way."

"Now you're flattering me."

"I'm not allowed?"

Tormund smiles down at him. "I suppose you are."

"I love you," Jon says, quietly.

Tormund's expression goes serious and soft. "I love you too." He nuzzles into Jon's curls. "So much, boy."

Jon hides a smile against his throat. They stay there until the smell of burning rouses them.

"Pizza," Tormund laments.

"Pizza," Jon echoes, and they reluctantly rise.

*

Jon preps vegetables the next evening for roasting while Tormund straightens up the main floor in preparation for their guests. As he chops, he feels his phone go off in his pocket. He answers it without looking, fighting Ghost's nose off the edge of the counter.

He expected Arya, but it's Sansa.

"Jon," she sounds very pert, but warm. "I'm assuming from your radio silence that things are okay?"

Gods; he's terrible. He owes her an apology too - but, no. He's talked to Arya. "Things are- things are good."

"That's good. You know, I was talking to Brienne earlier today; they're coming to visit in a few weeks."

That makes Jon go a bit awkward, ears pink. "Oh yeah?"

"You know Brienne and I are close. I thought... perhaps you might want to come down again? For the weekend this time?"

"And spend the weekend with my counsellor?"

"Jaime isn't that bad anymore," Sansa says, generously considering. "I thought you could bring Tormund. Unless it's too new."

Jon glances at Tormund, who isn't even pretending not to listen. "I don't know. I can ask."

"It would be really great," Sansa says softly. "We didn't get to spend much time on your last visit."

Jon hums. "All right, fine, wait," he mutes the phone and looks at Tormund. "My sister wants us to visit."

He smiles immediately. "That's great."

"Is it?"

"It is! When does she want us? I'll have to find one of the cousins to mind the farm for a few days."

"Are you sure it's not- too much? Too-?"

"Don't you dare say soon, Jon Snow," Tormund teases. "Months, I waited. Months!"

Jon blushes and unmutes the phone. "We'll try to make it work," he tells Sansa, with no small amount of nervousness.

"That's - Jon, that's great!" She sounds delighted. He stifles a sigh.

"Ah, yeah, I guess it is. I've got to go now," he tells her. "We're having Sam and Gilly for dinner tonight."

"Well, all right. I'll call tomorrow to arrange things properly."

"Thanks, sis," he murmurs.

"Have a nice evening, Jon."

"You too." He hangs up, and sighs, that odd mixture of content and apprehension rising in him. He suspects it will remain for a good long while. "You want to meet my sister?"

"I'd love to meet your sister."

Jon bites his lip on a smile. "What about my therapist?"

"We both care about you, that's common ground," Tormund says easily.

"You haven't met him. You won't like him." He sighs. "You'll love his wife."

"Will I? Why?"

"She's a real warrior. Kind, honorable." He glances at Tormund. "Tall."

"I do enjoy a tall woman."

"I'm sure." Jon is… neither. He swallows at the thought. But Tormund loves him.

"Tell me," Tormund says, patiently.

"I - it's silly."

"You seldom are."

"It was going to be."

"Tell me anyway, love."

"I'm not your usual type, am I?"

Tormund raises a brow and eyeballs him. "You mean because you're a man?"

"If you like."

"You're gonna make me guess?"

"No, it's. Yeah, that's what I mean. Also I'm - I look like this."

Tormund eyes him again, puzzled. "Aye, yes, you're right."

"Not pretty and tall, like your girls’ mum."

Tormund blinks again, several times, and then pushes in the last chair and comes to Jon. "Love..." he cups his cheek. "You're right, you're different to my girls' mam. But have you considered that's what I like about you?"

"N-no?"

"You're not like anyone I've met before," Tormund whispers, "you're perfect."

Jon whimpers a little. His eyes flicker closed as Tormund leans in to kiss him.

It's a soft and slow kiss, complete with strong arms squeezing him. Tormund strokes his hair as he pulls away, their noses still touching. "I've never had a little crow before, but I don't intend to let you get away."

Jon smiles. "Good to know."

"Just remember that." Tormund squeezes him again and then steers him back toward the table.

"I've not finished the veg," Jon laughs.

"I'll finish, love."

"So I'll just sit at the table alone?"

"Just make sure everything's set with the high chair?"

"Well why don't you let me finish what I'm doing and you check the high chair, Tor?"

Tormund looks flustered at the correction. Jon thinks he might be... nervous, somehow. He wasn't aware Tormund _got_ nervous.

"Tor?" he asks.

"Hm?"

"Are you all right?"

"I just want to make sure we're ready."

"For what?"

"Guests. Your friends." Tormund smiles. "They're not used to farms."

"Gilly is," Jon laughs. "Relax, Tor." He nudges into his space. "It's okay." It makes his chest feel warm that Tormund is nervous over this.

They stand together a moment longer, lips brushing, and then Tormund squeezes Jon and moves to get on with what he was doing.

By the time the door goes, he seems to have had time to settle, and he heads to greet them to the sound of Ghost’s eerie howl with a boom of contagious laughter. Jon listens to the hubbub from the kitchen, smiling to himself.

"No little Sam?" Tormund is asking,, ushering Sam and Gilly into the kitchen, taking their coats.

"Our neighbor offered to sit with him at the last moment. I hope you don't mind the change."

"Of course not. The babyfood was for Jon anyway.”

“Oi.”

“Just kidding, dear.” Tormund gives him his biggest, slyest grin when Jon throws a dish towel at his head.

Sam derails further warfare by handing Tormund a bottle of wine. “Here we are.”

"You shouldn't have. Jon! Your boy Samwell bought us fancy grape juice."

"Ooh, very fancy," Jon grins.

"I guess I'll bust out the fancy glasses and all."

Sam laughs. "Honored."

"We brought dessert too!" Gilly chips in.

"My favourite," Tormund rumbles. He takes the tub off her and gives her a gentle squeeze around the shoulders. He absolutely dwarfs her; it makes Jon smile to see.

"How is the wee one?" he's asking her, as Sam sidles up help Jon with drinks. Jon focuses on Sam.

"All right?" he murmurs.

Jon smiles. "I'm good, Sam. I'm happy to see you."

"Ah, you're not the only one. We've been looking forward to it." He nudges Jon with an elbow. "So, you've really taken to the North, eh?"

"I think it might've more taken to me."

"Same thing in the end, isn't it?"

"You'd be surprised." Jon smiles over at Tormund, catching his eye. "It helps."

"It does, doesn't it."

"You'd know." Jon grins.

"I'm glad you're seeing things my way."

"Turns out you have a point." He takes the wine glasses Sam hands him.

They move to sit at the table while Tormund puts out appetisers - mostly from the market. Gilly and Sam both smile, recognizing them.

"There is actual food we have cooked on the way, honest," Jon grins.

"We trust you. That is, we trust Tormund."

"I- I cook!" Jon sputters.

"We know," Gilly soothes.

"We've all been subjected to your cooking at some point or another," Sam puts in.

Jon pouts, and Tormund reaches out to squeeze his hand. "He's getting good. Prepare to eat your words."

Sam laughs and pats his belly. "I will."

When they're ready, Tormund serves the main dish as well. It's as easy as anything. They eat slowly, talking over local gossip and old stories alike. It mostly goes over Jon's head - something everyone acknowledges to mean things are as they should be. He watches Sam's expressions and how happy he seems. He and Gilly occasionally pause to look at one another; to share this _smile_, like everything is okay. Then Jon catches himself doing the same with Tor.

He pauses, taking a moment to observe his life from the outside. He's part of a couple. And he's hesitantly _happy_; wishing he was less hesitant. He reaches for a Tormund's hand, and feels that little thrill when he automatically takes it and squeezes.

Yes, this is where he belongs. With Ghost, and his friends, and _Tormund_. Tormund most of all. He's become home.

He doesn't bother to relinquish his hand when he goes back to eating and Sam and Gilly exchange a look. They all beam at one another.

"Next time, you can come to ours," Sam says. "As long as you pardon the toys all over."

"I'm used to it, living with Tormund," Jon quips. That's when he realizes he _is_ living here. However, the rest of the statement is factual, too. Tormund glances at him, but he's grinning like he heard something he liked, so Jon works to keep the colour out of his face.

"My drum set is not a toy," Tormund protests easily.

"I was talking about your game console."

"Oh, well then." He laughs. "Can't argue with that." He looks undisturbed.

Jon kisses his shoulder. Then he adds a nuzzle for good measure. Tormund's big arm winds around him and tethers him close and he gives up on the rest of his dinner. This is better.

They pour more drinks, and Sam and Gilly are chatting happily about goings on at the Wall and the village. They know everything, somehow. Tormund seems to, as well, and it makes Jon think of Winterfell. Of home. He suddenly realizes that he does, in fact, want to take Tormund to see it. He thinks he might like it, even if it is south of the Wall. He likes Jon, after all.

And he thinks he'll like Arya, too. He knows that, actually. The thought makes him smile, the warmth of knowing, of being known, lighting him up.

He bides his time until they've sent Sam and Gilly on their way, and then approaches him to wrap arms around him.

"All right, little crow?"

"Yes, I'm all right. I'm feeling happy," he murmurs.

"Glad to hear that." He wraps Jon up in his arms.

"Thanks for agreeing to come to Winterfell," Jon whispers.

"I can't wait to see where you lived. Places that have known you." Tormund punctuates it with a soft kiss.

"You're the only place that knows me," Jon assures.

"I want to be the last."

"I want you to be."

He lets himself lean into Tormund, lets himself be held. He's never been so content. He never thought he'd find a home like Tormund. And Ghost, he adds automatically.

The thought makes him beam softly. His family.

"Tormund," he whispers.

"Aye, love?"

"I love you."

"Ah, well, likewise, little crow."

"I mean it," Jon whispers.

"I know."

Jon grapples for the words that will make him see. Tormund's life is so much simpler than his. But he's not simple. He buries his face in Tormund's neck to think.

Tormund lets him. He strokes through his curls slowly. Jon can't find them, so he just clutches. It doesn't feel like it matters too much. Tormund holds just as tight.

Eventually, he takes a breath. "Thank you, for everything."

"Believe me when I say it is truly my pleasure, Jon," Tormund murmurs. "You're not the only one whose life has changed for the better, you know."

Jon smiles. "Tor... If I've done even half of what you've done for me, I'd be proud."

Jon's voice fails him once more. Tormund pulls back to look at him.

"You've done more." He presses their foreheads together. His hands are warm and rough on Jon's skin. "You've done everything I could ever imagine. You’ve made a lot of big leaps for me, I know that."

"You're worth it."

Tormund sighs. "Likewise." He cups Jon's cheek. "You're worth anything."

"You're all I want. As long as I'm worthy of you," Jon whispers.

"We'll be worthy of each other, then."

"Deal," Jon nods. He tilts his face up, sighs when Tormund strokes his cheek again; the scars on his cheeks. Whimpers a little when he lays a palm on his chest.

"You are my home," he tells Jon quietly.

It’s an echo of Jon’s own thoughts, and he’s so grateful to hear it. He knows now that Tormund understands. They press their foreheads together, at home in one another, and Jon lets out a long breath. He thinks they're going to be okay. Better than okay. Might be good. Might even be great.

The future opens up before them like a blanket of snow, and it is ready for them.


End file.
